In death haiku old soldier must ponder
frost and moonlit stubbled field to find life
fleeting. There are other types of slaughter,
though. In the bar’s bathroom you’re all ale-wife
groaning glee as your husband fucks your throat
harder, my cock pressed against your tightest
cleft. It’s pain and need all at once. You float
on bliss as your ass is forced wide. One thrust
I’m balls-deep, too. In rhythm. Spit-roasted
between us two. Perhaps one day I’ll think
back on this the way the poet appraised
frost fields but without woe. Yes, we squirted.
We came. I praise not death but godly kink.
I praise all that leaves us cum-rough and glazed.