I live in a grey world with a black and white cat and yet that’s enough. Color seeps in through the edges. Bliss.
Tasting my sex. I want sweat to drip. Eyes
rolled back in your skull. Come large. Come erect.
Come rub it. Come touch it. Come eat it. Sighs
and drawls speak in crazy tongues. You have wrecked
me for anyone else. When I say, “don’t
bite me,” I know that you will. When I say,
“don’t waste even a drop,” I know you won’t.
Impaled mouth. Hollow cheeks. Until I spray
blessings down your throat, you keep your eyes shut.
There are many talented cocksuckers
in this world, but out of all I chose you
because you’re mad and bad and you don’t slut
shame. I come each time I hear that sinner’s
voice on the phone say, “Come and get it, boo.”
Dumb glutton after reading Lolita
she looked once at her daughter and then fled.
Inamatus, bangtail, poor mute, daughters
of Lot pregnant with their leering father’s
observe this erotic Lent—and I thought
she had liked this gamahuching better
than she did. Than I do. Is there no more
exquisite a conjugation in our crude
anatomy than this where poetry
dovetails with the inevitable mandrake,
the Nebuchadnezzar, the three-penny
upright? To me, to me, to me the most
endearing is its unsuitableness
of such in books, magazines and Best Of
anthologies; and, conversely, the chief
wonder in hell (wither bone, I’m sometimes
transported) are these three sticky fingers
that I bring with me everywhere. Bite hard.