Stalled

I'm very creative in the morning.
Creative and... twitchy.
I settle down in my office chair
and my cunt twitches, waving its
hand in the air, saying
"me, me me, I know the answer!
Pick me!"
Erotic images tease my brain
and leak onto the pages of my
little writer's notebook.
And there they die.
I am a solar-powered poet
with an endorphin-dependent mind.
Deprived of fuel, I idle.
Instead, I swap sweet and
genial messages with my
wild Irish philosopher,
reckless no more,
his sadistic side on
hiatus, surfacing in the
sporadic kinky film plug.
We talk until bedtime.
I don my ex-slave shirt and
snuggle between cool sheets,
sinking into dreams of selkies
submitting to tamers of the sea.