Tonight the bass blares: We’re up for the down
stroke. Your cunt dimly gleams, lighting the room
with wet girl glare, half cinder and half smoke.
I is not I. Jah flies into the air.
What love is this? Our queer love. This affair
of ours let’s us get down for the upstroke.
There is no bad rhythm. We just resume
our mad fucking. Cumming. Drowning. We drown
in each others’ cum. I can dig it, star
child. I wanna call this love, testify
funkadelic, CC. Let the guitar
glare. We dig. We’re astral and moon pagan,
waiting for the Mothership Connection.