You are the evening sky.
You are all these stars.
You are this moon.
Gazing upon you,
you elevate me.
Achieving ascension
in your eyes.
Entranced from the pristine innocent
into the unfathomably dirty.
Drawn into you, absolutely.
See to it we don’t meet
again
as you would own me
and, if you allow, endure
a plethora of my sins.
The photo dropped my jaw
to the floor,
down to the depths of darkness.
Boiling point has been reached.
The teapot has begun to whistle.
I want to be deep within you.
Aggressively.
Passionately.
Irreversibly.
Leather jacket, the plaid skirt,
dyed, wet hair,
dirty fucking look in your eyes,
extended tongue and all.
Top to bottom, every hole,
mouth, tongue, some teeth,
this swollen appendage,
however pitiful,
penetrating,
jackhammering,
all burn
to dominate,
to build rhythm
until exquisite
liberation,
in intensity,
in cathartic revelation,
all just to release,
to please us both.
Fixate on it
if it turns you on.
Watch it till
you’re turned off.
Nothing
that’s not you
could ever
break through,
right?
Or am I ripe
for subversive
control? Tell me:
am I vulnerable?
Am I but putty
in the hands
of subliminal authorities
or do I maintain
my executive functions?
Wait.
Fuck.
Did I ever
have them?
Flush of the Mindpot 