This
bed smells of sex,
drugs
and rock and roll.
Our oozing as we’re squeezing
teasing, seizing
the moment.
You know...
It’s that dark flash of understanding,
responding and devouring
experienced in one
slow gaze,
culminating in a sudden gasp;
a clasp begging for more.
This
bed fills me up with sex,
drugs
and rock and roll;
Pulp Fiction black irony,
Van Gogh’s
exquisite madness,
Vavaldi’s four seasons,
your
terrifying beauty,
Jesus Christ Super Star
super pseudo...
Where
did he come from
to fuck me;
to fuck my trip;
my rocking and rolling;
head banging,
hips swaying,
pelvis thrusting
in time to your rhythm and rhyme.
But my falling from grace
is cushioned
by your
maternal breast.
This
bed turns me inside out
with sex,
drugs,
and rock and roll.
My throbbing, boiling,
dripping desire
craves your intricate rosary
of words;
your stroking my groping
with your mad professor fascination
with your own thoughts.
We
lie naked next to each other
and I can see
by the blue light
of the stereo
caressing your skin with my fingers,
and the luminescent purple outline
of your lips
and nose and lashes,
that you have O.D’d
on this slipping and sliding
all over each other
into the private gardens
of our crazy worlds.
You
are red, ripe and soft.
The smell of your
fruit
fills my home.
And I?
Well,
I don’t know why,
but I feel like
a piece of biltong
hanging in your room...