divine orgasms, entering the house of the orgasm, erotica, little savage, poem, Poetry, sloshed, sonnet
How do the sober mate? The ones not drunk
on quick kisses. Who don’t drop to their knees
on the first date. Who tuck their luscious junk
away and never learn how to say, “please,
cum-plum, I need more.” More libertine sex
magic and all the proteins found in cum.
More rough gods and nipple clamps. More objects
designed for pleasure. Imagine Sodom
as a lazy date night. The world is ours.
Imagine a kiss that leaves you stoned, sloshed,
flushed. Imagine me knocking on your door.
Debauched acts: what soils the soul in others
is our prayer. Pray savage, come drunk, unwashed.
Tell me that you want this … that you need more.