The crispy perfection risen
From the quick burn of gold as though
The phoenices of old came back to greet death
With the pale, clear smoke
Or with diaphanous ashes gilding still
The fieriest of feathers and their souls.
Oh how they bleed before the beheading,
But such end, for me, is
Ever favorable, and never ill.
I want an equal passion to receive me,
Where I would be eaten whole, taken
Full and proud, and stripped and naked,
Delicately touched, willingly devoured, consumed
By the mouth of my kisses, of my doing,
And thoroughly tasted
By her need-driven tongue.
I'd give my all. All.
I want that.
And that, I tell you,
Is a **** death.*

© 2015 J.S.P.