On Licking Off Your Sweat
My tongue must feel cool on the back of your neck,
even ticklish, with your hand clasping that curtain of hair,
pulling it aside like a sash,
revealing a field of wet, salty diamonds.
While I lick you, I notice the way that your neck,
breaks down your back,
like a wave generated from some perfect formula
proving nothing.
Your grace lives in your stillness,
it lives in your held breath, your gasp,
your pendulum rushes towards its
inevitable descent.
In the sun we are frozen like deer, and exposed.
I am naked.
I have nowhere else to hide.
Please, let me lay down my corpse here before you,
tear at my flesh with your beautiful teeth,
drink my blood like it is blood,
swallow me until you are drunk, then fuck me hard and relentlessly,
and toss me on the smoldering charnel pile,
for a wise old man to ponder, and forget.
Yes, forget me so completely that I am disabused of identity.
Forget me so that I will be reborn,
and revved,
and ready,
to find you again, my love.
Next time I will be more perfect for you, more delicious.
Next time my blood and blood and my flesh and flesh will move about in normal ways.
It will have a job, and eat breakfast in the morning, and shit normally.
Maybe it will even write love poems that are pretty and sweet.