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.