Some are doggy-dogs in
leather collars

and fat anal beads, shaggy
tails sprouting

at the end. Some dabble in
spittle, spurs,

flirtation and the crop.
“By the pricking

of my thumbs/ something
wicked this way comes.”

Some love convulsions that
come with their vice.

Unpredictable bad love.
Some love drums

in jazz never hitting the
same note twice —

my hand on your ass
— Like Mingus’

maxim, “awesomely
It’s like this:

all this ends in ire.
You’re blessed with good sex,

money and time. I’m drunk,
rank and gorgeous.

Pull up your bloomers. Go
home. You’ll find your bliss

with some other sod — a
god dour, complex.