“You bitch”, black and blue,
thighs once pale as harvest moon.
Scum I am, to admire you.
For the beauty you are, sinful it seems,
to want to run my fingers along and between
your bodily seams.
lust after you just as I do. Yet you are here, at my leisure—
a puppet on a string; my porcelain play thing.
Fragile, breakable and thin.
Wrapped in tie-dye sheets,
that sweet pseudo mix, unique;
smells like piss.
The slut you are, my treat,
roped in linen sheets. Shameless,
or so I hope,
that your will breaks for me,
and all I’ll hear are soft whimpers of “fuck me”,
and errant pleas—as they grow silent,
one at a time,
one at a time.
And roll, yes, we roll,
legs spread wide, rise let rise that heaping tide.
Squeeze! Squeeze as I may.
My arms cannot steady your rhythmic sway.
The pillow cannot rid the air of what you say, but only distort…
like the silencer on a gun as it goes bang:
fug me arder,
and arder becomes carter,
and he becomes arthur, and soon you’ll
make me come,
to let me go.
Watch me go…
for these seeds I have sown.