erotic poetry, fellatio has always been a violent act, gambol, poem, Poetry, sex in fog, sonnet, wet like fog
The day is dead and lain in fog – not, “laid
in fog.” That’s when the city’s odd twilight
rolls in, turning streetlights wispy, decayed,
grotesque. Among the shadows our delight
comes when we gambol and glow. All that wet
air, pools of cool oil, smeared by ghostly palms
between your breasts. Morass of dew and sweat.
“Straddle me,” you say, kneeling with maelstroms
in your cunt, tempests in my cock. I curl
down the valley of your cleavage. “Seismic
upheaval?” Indeed. Slickness, all foggy
and cum-splattered around your neck; a pearl
necklace. Drastic love: the sort of drastic
pleasures others just dream about, dimly.