2020
Your tongue a crystal goblet, my
belladonna reservoirs.
Hallucinate
I try to speak explicitly into the
void of sex, but the
words simply aren’t true.
There is nothing to be touched,
inexistant fingertips and lips, an arrow
buried in the ether where
unlaced vertebrae should be.
My tongue a long-awaited rain, your
fields of aconite.
Below my feet your agonizing slow stirring
iron seas generate such ecstatic gravity, your
absurd almost unrecognizable melody.
Wave of electricity, capturing and
snapping the neurons, one by one.
Then everything is gone.