Thunder… then lightning,
feverish caress of musky notes,
****** scent of loving irony
to curiously tempt each edge
of such a fractionated cubism.
Tiny desert rose, ready
to dilate all its farthest dusty ravines
just to feel its lymph racing out of bounds.
Hot water runs down on me,
raw and bitter into my mouth,
a taunting sadism
for better wince, essentially
in a universe that is not there.
Painted glow of cynic nocturnes,
diluted to loss,
watered down to dawn.