Defection
When
I'm near you
I feel my sense of propriety
burn black, sizzle...
melt...
like wax at both ends.
I loose control.
I
want to rip at the pretentious morals
my mother embroidered
on my soul in silk.
And go to the place
where angels sell their souls
just to have that sticky juice of passion
run down their chin.
You,
with eyes and mouth and mind
so ravenous,
come devour me,
ravage and plunder
the milky universe with your
insatiable craving;
your powerful, sensual feasting
on my flesh.
I look at you,
your fragile butterfy wings
tipped with slender claws,
and wish to slice you open,
climb inside;
feel the pulsing blood of your world
warm, wet
against my skin
and in my mouth.
Let's beat our wings at
the gravity of guilt,
and fly into the blinding white darkness;
the technicoloured fire
of my kingdom
for a split eternity.
I want to show you
things you have never seen
in this shade of passion;
slide through the paint on my palette
onto the landscapes
of my canvass.
Let's laugh at steel and stone,
walls and doors,
mothers and fathers,
time and posterity,
Who is this mute god of chastity
anyway,
His appeal has blown away
like the ash from my cigarette...
3 Feb. '97