i write when my lust has got no home

i write when my lust has got no home

in the early morning
digits work in concert
those fine grubs, nothing but
muscle in a mucous cone
each body a twitching arch
to a severe curl

in a theater alone, pinching the red velvet cushion
beneath my thighs, on each side
a gaping mouth and a dry throat
wondering where the body goes

metaphor is a helpless grip, a willful
contraction hot at the heels of conception
strange when the mind stops
to pull out and cum
on a patterned blouse

i write when my lust has got no home

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