Less blindman’s bluff, more soixante-neuf, climax
ached as I sucked the crotch of your blood-splotched
panties, pomegranate drizzle. Soundtracks:
quaff, sip, sup. Soon half a century debauched
will be nothing; like storms sired in your gut,
your stirred cunt, when we parted your sarong.
I’ve lapped up secrets the color of smut:
anathema’s dawn, cthulhu’s spawn, the long-
lipped yawn of menstrual flow. The zodiac
has grown grotesque. Soothsaying holds no bliss.
Soon. Soon I’ll be fifty … in March (hint-hint),
on a Tuesday, your clit-smack the soundtrack
of my day, your lips leaving a blood-kiss
tasting just like copper and peppermint.