Would I might rouse the jelly-boy in you
which throbbed, quaked, pulsated in your knickers

last night. A dill-doll. A purple cork-screw
with all the battery-power of mother’s

little helper. Greeks called it, “olisbos” —
born from where the ghost of Sappho’s cosmic

songs caused storms, carved the island of Lesbos.
I like it best when we’re out in public;

you slip it out and head to the restroom,
gone for ages. Once I heard your fuck-please

keening groan mixed along with Cunt-Bugger’s
(pet name) dreary drone. Last night cum, froth, spume

glazed its sides. This night with its batteries
dead you feel a touch too raw for pleasure.