Pink Slip.

No comforts resurrected
in the absence of his grip
Fleeting aches
body shakes
I am thoroughly affected
by demands made from his lips
In withdrawal
until nightfall
When I’m finally subjected
to the will of his fingertips
Subservience
Willingness
For the form to be perfected
beneath his gentle dominance
Heavenly Hell
I show and he tells
Only his desires reflected
as coils tighten and knots slip
He’s burning
I’m learning
He has taken over ownership.

Syrupy.

My skin’s sticky,

lips are salty,

licked by curiosity,

piqued to the extreme,

  • so syrupy,

my skin’s on fire

desire is,

a growing thing,

a thickly veiled,

  • necessity,

secret thoughts,

I’m entertaining…

 

come down here

lay next to me,

read from your books,

in the darkness to me,

  • tell me stories,

make me believe

in the God,

we both know you can be,

the line gets taut,

  • now I’m listening,

My Lord, My King,

I’m unworthy…

 

…and, this is the language

in your name, I speak.

Re-Master.

“A watched pot never boils…”
he said,
as he was leaving me –

got me tangled in his coils…
bowed head,
on the edge of pleading –

his fingertips are forceful…
sacred,
his touch has come to be –

in withdrawal and mournful…
naked,
when he’s about to leave –

he tends to find me on my knees,
taken,
waiting for him subserviently –

the same as I am when he leaves again,
god-forsaken,
until he returns to re-master the scene.

 

Re-Master.

“A watched pot never boils…”
he said,
as he was leaving me –

got me tangled in his coils…
bowed head,
on the edge of pleading –

his fingertips are forceful…
sacred,
his touch has come to be –

in withdrawal and mournful…
naked,
when he’s about to leave –

he tends to find me on my knees,
taken,
waiting for him subserviently –

the same as I am when he leaves again,
god-forsaken,
until he returns to re-master the scene.

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Saddled to Ride.

The deserted landscape
whispers
fabled secrets
into frightened ears;
tailing just below
the wind
like words
sharp as swords
from your nightmares
an old, forgotten
friend,
brave of heart
– loyalties lost to time;
deafens thy ears,
to blind eyes
that you can’t hear…
– this tale of theirs’
or mine, or ours
maimed
by silken slices,
straps, smiles
chains
and countless vices,
– finally exhaling
so many swallowed
breaths;
and snotty tears,
inhale…
the air in here
tastes stale
like a milk jug
from last year,
chain-maille…
to a gang of filthy whores.