Succubus, Muse
I have not written
as one banished,
amnesiaed
by the promise
of a letter to a
one-night standa dull insomniac,
numb to words,
writhing
in unconscious lust.Zigzagged,
diverted
from lover's coma to
mystery lipsa perverted aberration --
wandering,
falling again
from your fever
in some frozen
solitary trance.Waking now
that sinful sweat
forms on my lips,
soaks the wordsthe dawn captures
my loins,
thrusts me back
to the flushed
dead of night
woods
by the bonfire.I succumb to
your pungent imagery.
Your wetness.
Your nonchalance.
Your flesh
as mouth
and tutor.
