51

I fucked to love, but never made it
Mario Stone

Her crying pulse heralds the chaotic
Bellows of  deeper thrash. I tear into
Her heart and lick its length until my tongue blooms

             Lush, bloodrose— our parting lips.
             Lust the crave, the crutch
             I grab, I clutch and push. To carry on

Is vanity— such endeavors in the name of  love
Are feats of  self-deception,
A felony of  lips
 
             Giving way to squandered breath, pleasure past—
             A thorn to pierce the supple mass
             And burn the skin I hold close.