In the glow. Pillow talk. Cuddle. Our legs
shake, but slow. There’s metaphysics to sleaze.
Each thrust begs reaction. Each echo begs
return. In gasps. In rasps. In melodies.
The Twin Blasphemies made me sing your name.
The Pale Night Gnawing Worms helped drag those sounds
from me in tatters. Rot’s Labyrinth then came
to bound down the sounds, while Saint Jude’s hellhounds
intoned the rest like prayer; by rex, by hex,
by your climax. You say that its surreal
to feel me under you, seeing that gleam
in my eyes, knowing how we want this sex.
We do. Me. You. All that gleams in my skull.
All the nightmares that you soothe into dream.