blood, conked, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, flux, phat ass spasms, poem, rage, rumpus, sonnet, tongue lashing
Fury. Less than an inch. A fingertip’s
worth of savagery. With winter over
your dress lifted breezily. With your hips
laid bare, with your thigh laid on my shoulder ––
a tongue lashing. Thawed flesh; like how ghosts crash
through conked swamp roots or gods, once sour, soon calm
under stress. Under your dress spiked mustache
cacti nestled my lips. Sophomore prom.
Without relief you made jaw clenching mewls,
then phat-ass spasms. Dissolving in blood
and flux; dissolving, all rage and rumpus.
I was a clueless child … but so were you.
“What was that?” you gasped as the world, viscid
and vast, slowly swam back into focus.