The tool box comes dissembled,
Those very things that mind the traditions of our ways
Are screwed on too tight. Too loose.
I fling myself back,
I am a heavy thud
Upon your swollen lips.
Your quiet, dismissive fingers,
Somehow I’d imagine them to tap and rightfully shatter
The accusing bones betwix my breasts.
Suspended , spellbound, rapturous – I suppose I’d like you to
Touch me. Hu-mi-li-ate me.
Aren’t we all,
Penned for the better,
In honest affairs,
I am but a dangerous method,
An innocent, harmless, descent…your eyes trail
Discover atop my hollow loins
A fresh kill.
In the liquid of life.
My hand grips the chair’s spine, a hold of my only truth,
I present you
Prostrating such mad, mad bliss.
Upon which eyes
Do you cast upon my sight?