Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath
when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips
I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.
I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s
handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole
deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips
and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.
I run my fingers through you, though what drips.
I call it soul — something that I can touch.
Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss
when at last full. It’s what copper suggests
on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch
as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,
this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.
“Delight in the video” — I don’t play
too many lover’s games. All that vanity
turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey
simple commands, and at times willingly.
It’s what you do in public. Curious
that you’ll take it far enough to almost
get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness
that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost
you mark where you’ve been with dripping,
sticky fingerprints — After the vodka
tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video
starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting
down, you smile — staring into the camera.
“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”