sex poem

Pale lips flutter alight,
Mouthing phantom praise, saxophone coos.

The flesh hung from supple
Cords, taut and handy,
Brown and luxurious.
Molded of wet clay,
Glistening and heavy, pressed
By gravity onto textured chairs.
I felt the compulsory
Touch of thickly rolled
Thighs against me.
The glint of the onyx eyes
From under lashes and hair
Signaled something like the
Bittersweet tin of semen.

Hair bobbed and framing her
Eyes like the flaps of a tee-pee.

Her lips are soft, full, and round and
Press softly into crevices and trace
Hills and valleys leaving waxy trails of
Lipstick and the texture of her lips
Like fingerprints Identifying the
Writer of the letters

I noticed the silver tin wrapper of
The Lifestyles condom you hid in
Your transparent Armani handbag.

I sat there supposing
That the foil would
Open for my use-- its
Silken present my
restraint.

A centrifugal head-spin,
A cowering dyspepsia of spiny
Thoughts and dissections
Pitches me forward.
She parts me easily
And plunges in with barbed wire
And bottle cap love.

A hateful lovemaking:
Golden fog perfume and full lips,
Shimmering gold skin appeals,
Then cuts -- bleeds
Long and red down my back.

Flesh grows hard and white around
The blackened blade in my back,
The jagged handle protrudes. Still,
I am unable to remove it.

Agony. Ripping pain,
An arched back,
A howling scowl,

A large wound, open and fresh,
Dappled by its own spittle,
Reminds me of the rich
Imported soil of a garden.

Moist and funky,
A steam bath awaits
When ground opens.
Rivulets of murky water

Collect at the bottom
Of each scoop;
Warm loam appears to pulse
With eyeless worms

That free with each dig --
Veiny, watery.
Open wounds give under fingers,
Dirty nails -- fresh soil too --

Marrow laden bones
Like thick thirsty tree roots
Stop scalpels from sinking
Straight through to China.