Tags
die hard, die loved, die wet, erotic poetry, masturbation is the door we all need to pass through, poem, quote unquote, Siouxsie Sioux 8-track, sonnet
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.”
memories of my ghost sista 