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ahoo, erotic poetry, love alone, masturbating to emily dickinson, masturbation, pink milk that rises slowly like someone masturbating between their knees, shlick, sonnet
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
-lips-crush-down-tongues-fail-to-pull-
away … But no. Of course. I (like you)
are alone in these solitary acts.
memories of my ghost sista 