winding
spinning
grasping
sinning
follow the motions
read them aloud

the flick at the end
of your lowercase d
ignites me
when you say
you're aroused

whipping
digging
curving
and looping
i study your prose
nectar trickling down

body curved like a c
lips pursed patiently
my dear,

how are your o's so perfectly round?

rhythmic
shaking
stirring
quaking
the stroke of your pen
is all i can see

without physicality
my floodgates are opened
with poetry
you stroke me

the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.

nothing seems right
the colors don't fit the tone
the melody doesn't fit the song
everything is spinning out and out
no end to it
no end to the constant pain
that sneaks into every little crevice it can find
and if there are no more
it'll crack and break you open
like a ******* pistachio
and seep through
ooze into every part of you
until you are nothing more than a corpse
filled with gooey black
mess and sorrow and agony and pain
oh the pain it never goes away
it shows too much
you can never keep it inside
it'll always find a way to dissipate
show itself
so prideful, tell them all that
you've been able to consume another victim
able to corrode away the inside and make it
it's new home.

That's all it ever wanted anyways.
A home;
isn't that all we ever want?