our differences are in their infancy
at the body's showtime — the race
of will and safe word.
cenotaph of the *****
– bloodshot and weary.
industrial art, and the big old I
think of you
at the start of my masturbatory
routine - afternoons
where work is distant, and how
****** is asphyxiation
when the automaton
is dressed like a pretense?
wow.
i am so lost against this notion
of an integral shudder. i am
lost like the hatchling stranded
on planet pergola,
dead before it hits the ground.
there is no admitting faults
to lamplight in late evening,
there is no real security in
the gap made between his
steadfastness and my submission.
there is only the light
of our latest endeavours shining
sickly on wet genitals,
and mutual nervousness
cooling off under a ceiling fan.