Poem: Kink On Crescent Moon

beard

When she smiles,
Her eyes become crescent moons,
Sentries blinking out from Turkish sheets,
Soft strokes caught in the tangles of dream catchers,
The train roaring past where we lay in her hammock,
Exchanging music as a common currency,
Interspersed with titbits of languid philosophy

But, it is not to be helped
That shared nakedness unveils all errors,
All the bed-bugged blankets,
The disallowance of masculine expression,
Forever the second woman in the bed,
Casting tears on the proceedings

“I have toys if you want to play,
Genitals tingling lubricated,
Electrodes to ensnare your clit,
Grant seismic jolts to your swollen nipples,
Offer everything a boy could want,
Except genuine affection
Or exchange of feeling”

I am not just a dick with a brain attached,
A dildo animated with life,
My male form is incidental to the cosmos,
I am a soul first and foremost,

But who cares for souls at all
When crucified on hollow passions,
Sharing all tenderness but that sincerely felt?

Of course, I can choke you,
As I grind against your ass,
I can wrest moans from you,
Play you like an instrument

But God forbid I should have feelings,
Still wearing your scars like medals,
God forbid a man should be anything
But a dick, a bank account, an amalgam
Of muscles – a sacred patronus
Of sex and security

May you forever be cursed with sensitive men,
With non-acquisition of the superficial,
Next time you want something divest of meaning,
I suggest you study The Law,
Or fuck a gigolo,

No scars from crescent moons,
Or incense-laden beds,
I wish I’d never met you,
That my confidence wasn’t dead

Go fuck yourself on your own hollowness;
I’ll be more careful when I undress

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