Tension all day. Not drug addled shakes. Not
that coy, mad disquiet soothed, by and by,
from an end of an orgasm. I’m caught
between jitter and soul’s strain. A horsefly
on an ass’s fat haunch. I feel friction
tug at the red thread of my fate. Lewdest
of love: sin. It’s how Sade’s lust has eaten
me brunt. Me grin. Then, am I a sadist?
¡Ai! to myself. — Someone has ridden me
hard. Not who, but what. Something. Some damn thing
from the graveyard where I pray has ridden
me last night. Now I’m vexed. Now I worry
how to cleanse the tension that the dead bring
when you’ve finally got their attention.