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They say alcohol makes us beasts. Indeed,
I was drunk each time I snatched you up, mauled

you with clack-claws, with tongue, with unhurried
greed. I thought temperance would cool my ribald

tastes; that my need for a good feed would wilt
with no thirst to drive it. Foolish. I’ve been

foolish. Tell me you still want me to split
you wide, pierce you through like St. Sebastian

with my cock: dozens of bloody deep strokes.
Drunk on that word: gash. Drunk on that other

spirit. Tell me your bone’s marrow is mine
for the sucking. No hangover will coax

out these moans when you cum. Drunk sober
when your cum tastes better than any wine.