On Your Desire

Your desire is a dark, rich beer,

hungry yeast feeding on sweets.

It bubbles in the belly of the beast

and gorges itself on horror and tears.

A burp could come at any time,

while on the road, or selling your wares.

GERD in its erotic form, a perverted

variant of a common complaint.

It's not the taste of bile that stains

your gorge. It's essence of cunt, and

your testicles jump as you roll the flavor

in your greedy mouth as if it were

that melting flesh itself. You want her.

You want to fall on her, tearing her

to bits, stripping away her flesh,

sucking the poetic marrow from her bones,

and leaving only tears and the echo of

her screams. And her lips. Her moist

yielding lips that you kiss for hours

bathing in the blood of her submission.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Posted by permission.

I did not write the last, dark part. Some poet dybbuk drove my fingers and I watched in horror as his words took shape in blood upon the screen. I had gotten as far as "You want her." It seemed to need two more lines. I was stealing time from my employer to serve my cruel confessor, but my mind had stalled. I stared at my words but inspiration was on a coffee break. And then, I swear on a pile of long heavy chain, my fingers began to move and the poem was done. And then I couldn't free myself of it for the rest of the day. As did my story "The Branding" for days after it was written, this poem continues to haunt me. But it pleased my punishing professor, and in our world that's all that matters.