Taken from a larger body of work regarding S.
We do it lying on our backs, you and I, looking up at the ceiling.
Our parts connecting like a chain link.
We do missionary. You above me, staring down.
Me, buried in the tattoos on your right arm.
Buried between the pin-up and the devil with a cigarette.
The eight ball at my nose. The dice at my eyes.
We talk dirty. The usual. “You’re a bad little party girl, huh?
Fucking all your friends behind my back…”
We pretend to be who we are not; imaginary and polyamorous.
Nurse. Submissive. Dominant. School girl. Secretary. Whore.
We use props. Blindfolds. Rope. Clipboard. Food. Hosiery.
Vibrator. Gloves. Clamps. Boots. Wig.
You ask me to tuck away my need for something deep and save it for another time.
And quiet my regret that this is all we’ve got.
Dirtying ourselves up with emptiness and release
In the garden of eden, sugar factory, swivel chair, bed, on the tube to Morden…
Yet, somewhere in between you always say, “I love you.”
As if you knew that seeing God were not enough.