Metaphor for Malchik

Dogs don’t use metaphor
– Ruth Padel
I have been burying the delicious white stick.
I have been sniffing the butthole’s brown flower.
I have caught the wooden wingbone:
here it is.
I have returned to the stomach’s liquid child,
to the lumpy feast. I have been licking
my own soft chestnuts:
here they are.
Why do you tug the neck’s strap-on tail
when this Volga of hot-bitch scent
has just poured past?
There she is.
I make a tripod fountain.
I puddle up to the gadeget of my new ipoodle.
I cock a wood’ll woo her:
here it is.
She is squatting mother to the fragrant slug.
I am not distracted by the magnetic North
 South East and West Poles of wee wee:
but there they are.
She’s like the leg of a Chekhovian aunt
i must embrace. She’s like the trousers
of the garden invader, ripe for perforation.
So she is.
She’s like the white hole in the black air
that sucks out howls. She’s like the tendons
that tug the skeleton of the pack together. In fact,
here we are.

from Three Men on the Metro (Five Leaves Press, 2009), © W N Herbert 2009, used by permission of the author

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