Sad sex magic with hell-cam and dildo.
“Meet me half way,” you say; which, on a map,

would be the North Atlantic. The Faroe
Islands, say? Yo, sex on a sno-flo. Icecap

smut and perpetual twilight. Lately,
though, I feel off. Few hold my interest. You

do, with your goat legs and horns, ungodly
lusts, love of old school hip hop. True, I knew

why we would never meet. I didn’t miss
that hell is a dating app on our phones.

Spambots hook up more often than us. Still,
even an icebound island can be bliss

with you on it knocking boots, shaking stones,
wanting more than a sex-cam’s divine thrill.