[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”

I prefer “scatological reveries.”

Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.

These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]*

Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.

I hope *[they have popcorn on hand.]

I don’t much care for
this summer heat anymore.
No one likes to touch.

I much prefer fall—
its chilled breezes and need for
some warm, close contact.

Tighter hugs, stronger
drinks, shorter days, and longer
nights with encouraged

cuddling, cuddl—
ing, cuddling, cuddling,
cuddling— you dig?

It’s been considered—
maybe I wasn't meant
to be
what you'd call
“ladylike.”

Sure, the word—
it sounds pleasant enough—
the way it rolls off the tongue
with its pale pink sound
& its clean contours that
kiss the corners of the mouth
just so.

What girl
wouldn't want to be something
that pleasurable
to sound out?

No.

I don’t want to be something
so subtle.

I want to be the word
that's craggy and creased—
the word
that bites so hard
on its speaker's lip,
all other syllables
slip the mind
& they're left
with only mine.

I want to be the word
you remember
weeks later,
& silently repeat to yourself
when you’re alone with your thoughts—
the word
that feels so satisfying to say,
it's unable to be muted.

Yeah.

“Ladylike” won’t hold a candle
to that word
when I happen to find it.

If you fancy
a cheap thrill,
I suggest you
buy erotica read on CD.

The narrators never disappoint.

Listen to it only in your car.
Be sure to take the route
with one too many stoplights—
teeming with all of
the self-righteous pedestrians
who think they always warrant
the right-of-way.

Roll down
all of your windows.
Turn the volume up
to a number that will
allow you to suitably share.
Employ a smirk of
the most contented caliber,
& bank on making
someone’s ******* day.

*('Cause, no matter how you skin it,
we’re all some kind of human.)

Warm condensation
drips in time
to some old doo-***
on the stereo.

Casually, I clear off
a small section
of the bathroom mirror.
I notice
the uninterrupted curves of my face—
the unsettled color of my eyes—
& the freckles
that weren't there yesterday.

With my fingers,
I lightly graze my mouth
between those hummed harmonies.

My lips seem
to be a deeper red this morning.

I inspect the top bit
& bite down on its bottom counterpart
if only to keep my coy smile in place.

*No one knows
what I dreamt last night
except me.

Consider poetry
& all of its complicated forms.
Then strip it
of all rules and restrictions.

Now, consider the subject matter.

Free verse
would not be free enough
for the words I would choose
to describe
what I would like to do to you.

Maybe these types of instincts
weren't meant to be cheapened
with velvety phrasing
& sumptuous language.

You see,
I have this hypothesis
that poetry
would be just as effective
translated into raw action.

(They really should have
shipped me off
to the nunnery
when they had the chance.)

But they sent me to college instead—
where I learned
how to properly test
my hypotheses.

**Hot ****, do I love research.

My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****.
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.

She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.

She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.

Scrupulous? Undeniably so.

She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.

My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.