The Judas Kiss by Kaya Genç

They were very good friends who were not quite frank with one another. Over the last twelve months they had mastered deception, had almost never told the truth to each other. The excuse for their secrecy was that they were both struggling to write first novels: a process that needs discipline, commitment and strategy. They were sarcastic, and the sarcasm gradually became habitual.
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You come to me like Vertumnus, in costumes to catch me, but I am not so sure about the Pomona part. I’m Irish, not Greek, darling.

Today, you wear nude Cuban stockings that lick your legs as you swagger towards me in the orchard. I pretend I am interested in pruning the plum trees. I’m not. The ferny curlicues of hair between your legs beckon, but I want to teach you something about hard work and responsibility and the kissing cousin closeness of delay and desire.

furious greengrowling
WANDERLUST OF TOUT TERRE
beckons, vexing a young quarf out of bed
three foot ten
a visage of massive no thing
Over WAYOVER weight rain down cruel judge
with that gavel you stole from the cleanmean streets of montreal. Trying to make ends meet.