She said to me, walking in trees on a cold night,
Boy, I want chocolate after your raw tongue.
Lather me with mounds, melting like hot peaches,
In the juicy spring.
I’ll turn the tree into a sweet Sunday pole.
Dance like a sweaty, delirious goddess.
Together we’ll watch the storm with bitter moans,
Forbidden whispers.
Live in the purple-breasted apparatus.
And drool over your tiny repulsive head,
As you lay beneath the frantic symphony
Of the black forest.