Pleasure, as they say, is its own reward;

for those of us who barter and haggle,

dreaming of more. To die wet. To die hard.

To die loved. To be more than a wastrel.

“He’s at work,” you say. “They’re outside playing.

Wish it was your cock and not” [here you shake,

drawing your phat butt-plug from your gaping

Ö] “This. Look!” [on your webcam you ache, quake

and crack.] “Guess it can’t be helped, fu-fu-fu.”

They’re not lost years, frenzied at my computer;

we’re the tribe that does what it must for lust,

without apology. “Play Siouxsie Sioux

and cum for me.” I stand: drunk, hornier

than the gods and start with, “Cities in Dust.”