All I can think about lately is doing it.
You know, sex!!!!! shhhhhhhhh.
Which is weird, for me.
For you, I could think up a thousand ways to suck
you slowly, or not so slowly.
Is this far too much?
It is for me, too much, indeed.
On the couch, smoking joints,
pulling too much softness
into my insides, i am twitching because
of your stare, i am compacting
into tiny squares of combustible
bullshit, because who ever told us
that sex mattered at all?
Could you honestly attempt to make
it into a sacred swelling,
where even straight up fucking is
a musical, influenced by violence and
raspberries and full-heartedness spilling
over and filling up so fast that
everything you own and know can blur,
only for moments, into a calmness that
urges you to always be free?
oh well, yeah right. tell me
otherwise. i have a song i still want
you to hear, you can't make those
gestures and not move to make me
take you, oh fuck, girls can't talk
about fucking without getting fucked.
i'm done, it's over.
will you please have sex with me?