You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****.
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.

Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful ***-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).

Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.

The way the harsh light bounces off your skin makes me think your face is electric. Soft pores and sunshine fleshtones. Almost like your face is the sun, and you are the son of the sun. The Son of the Sun. The Son of Man. On the wall, the clock ticks loudly. Ticking is just another word for stabbing. Looking across the room, I can see the angry, inflamed air. It has pus and blood. It's gaping. I draw a shallow breath and taste saltiness. You draw a breath and taste nougat. When you do, I can't help but look at your teeth. Your pearlywhites. Vanilla gelato. Sweet and good to eat. Were we ever friends? Could we be? A smile sneaks its way in at the corner of your mouth, and your foot begins to tap. I can't tell whether the ticking is making the noise anymore, or your foot.

Twelve years from now, you walk down the street with your son on your shoulders and your wife at your side. While you and your boy eat Baby Ruths, she snaps a picture. In it, the nougaty center is clearly visible. It looks like your skin. Sunshiney and soft and not salty at all.

So look out sailor when you hear them croon
You’ll never be the same again, oh no
Their crazy music drives you insane. . .
                                                  
                                                Roxy Music

A ****** of song, a passing fit
They call to you and no one saves.
And then you loosen— just a bit:
Dopamine rolls in with the waves.

Captain—can you hear that sound?
That song unearthly screaming bliss;
Moaning sighing seas resound
The island welcomes like a kiss.

Breakers rising, cresting, swelling
Bear you towards a bone-strewn lair.
Portals open; warm, compelling
Variations: fleshtones . . . hair.

Your craft will wreck upon the rocks
Though you may live—and regret the ride,
Recalling ports and placid docks;
Oh mariner of the raging tide.

That music . . . let me hear some more!
It surges now behind the light,
Illuminating from the core
A vessel in descending night.