I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex
was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”
“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,
with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood
brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —
that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,
somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.