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Death leads me to these acts done in flagrance.

After great pain” – Shlick – “a formal feeling” –


Shlick – “Cums.” Twitch. Petite death. There’s no science

to what stirs first. Vortex wakes, quakes. “Shlicking,”


you said. “Soft, sleek and fine,” you said. “Watch this:

my lit clit.” – Such bliss can only be sensed


along the edges: blood cycle, dawn piss,

star dust, love alone. That moment: hips tensed,


spine arched, knees flung all ahoo. I am full

of blessed sin, sacred sparks, every taboo


role that I know. In that blind moment cracked



away … But no. Of course. I (like you)

are alone in these solitary acts.