Poetry of a Conlanger

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Lust (11/12/06)

Quickly, quickly,
I hunt for the right actions,
Stumbling over the threshold
Of morality.

No monologues for me, you—
Just short syllables
In the darkness.

Pres up against you,
I feel twisted, dirty,
But oh, oh,
I want this.

My eyes closed,
I still know what I’m doing.
Red cloth, black cloth, pale skin—
Mouths moving, cupping, darting.
Cold wall, rough brick,
Hands in all the right places, feet braced.

Dark stars flashing behind my eyes—
Ah, sweet release,
It is you I’ve wanted all along—
He is just a vessel.

(one of my creepier poems...)


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