My spine twists as I roll beneath your nails.
I’m so awkward, but you taste like Spirit.

I’ll roll you up, let you run through my veins
in a cab; if I could paint I’d paint smut,

I’d paint your future: two fingers deep in
until you grab my wrist and hiss: “not here.”

So you’re sixteen and deadlier than sin,
I just had to ask, tell me if it’s real;

as the radio says; as the boom box
commands. Everything I’ve said has been told

by far better souls than mine. I still drip
like blood, like snot, like love. When all the cocks

and cunts are revealed — like these center fold
gods — we the divine will say, “let it rip.”