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With laps and droll slurps your harvest glazes
my chin. Chaos is life blood, you claim. No.

Chaos is fitful spasms, moon phases
that leave you to burn. Blood-fire, my psycho

killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, requires controlled burns;
like jazz, like bop, like, “a loo bop a lop

bam boom.” Caramelized, your uterus turns.
I peer over belly and breasts. To stop

would be crass. Cupping your ass in my hands.
Bringing you to my mouth. This is life blood,

indeed. I feed on bam boom. Your harvest,
best friend, expands you. My hunger demands

rough love. Who else has done this for you? Flood
and flame. Chaos and cum. First lick. Last thrust.