Cunt Crane

  1. You will be mine, your eyes will be mine, my cock the sceptred terror whose sessions rend us til we come together—no longer two but pious, our lovers’ hands flapping like feet. Your legs share the lustre of the stars. In poinsettia meadows I muscle you as best I can, totally relaxed but prodigal, completing my dark confessions slimy like a dog. My nipples are dying for your shoulders—wind up the hours and hasten for it’s been too long. My nipples are superscribed with bent foam and waves—do hasten, my honey, to sweeten them. My nipples desire you—they close round me one instant then float upward, staring at the screen, thinking of you with awe. O minstrel, fill me with gallons of Carib fire; lie beneath me, I am so sensitive and so much has been left unanswered in the vortex of our grave seas. Your pube looks like a little naked animal, my infinite consanguinity—bare your tender middle finger and with your left hand cover my sea plains where the sky resigns. Play my breast like a keyboard, fill my room with your water lane. Wound around you, I am laved and scattered, my teeth sticking out like separate vampires each snapping as the sea lifts. Fill my reliquary til there are no shadows, feel my nipples’ swollen gates that arrest all distance. They’ve gelled to cranberries. Without impediments, our light wrestles incessantly, exactly where you’re driving it to me. Every time we die together, we shed, presuming no carnage—but I’d feel better when fucking, flung from dawn to dawn, your silken skilled hands cracking my ass for you voyage love into those hands. No need to count left/right or up/down when we have the spectrum of the sea’s pledges. Vastly now my pussy is getting wet, my bridge—palm me severely til I get sore—open your eyes and see streams of greater love advancing now, drops of blood oozing from my flow immortally to you. All fragrance is yours. Your arm goes straight up in this hour and region that is ours—fist me beneath this dark ceiling like a giant rose, filling my chancel port. Portion your horse into a new world. My asshole is yours—step forth brightly with your stave of flowers, tangerine mixed with rose petals, your fatal tides a signature of the incarnate. Our breasts are like babies breathing, our breasts mingling mutual blood, transpiring. My pussy doesn’t want to behave and my breast is gathering all bright institutions, placing you in these inviolably blue latitudes; come is dripping all over me, and my cunt won’t stop exclaiming as I receive your secret oar.