The Suck

for Moonglow

That night comes
into day

is a matter
of the cold fire

at the earth's
core, felt

in the center of
your gut.

Your name's not
Johnny, but still

slim-hipped
and handsome

enough for me
to want to

wear your spangles
on my face.

And so
with flirty word

and the flashy lust
our tongues

entwine to
visibly possess,

my hands
draw down

and my knees
go down

upon the floor
with fingers softly

up your thighs
to cup the subtle

knot of the
single muscle

of your rump
that presses gently

forward. The blush
is upon me

and the rush
to feel your tender

bulk and length
at rest upon

my tongue, how
I lave it so,

feel the star
in its throbbing

head, take it
in and move

my middle finger
to your crack

to feel the pulse
of your closed

rosebud. I
look up, and your

face is dark
before the accidental

halo of a bare
lightbulb,

where mine is
bright, your cock

against my cheek
as I kiss

the creases of
your abdomen.

The walls grow
hairs and hearing

ears, and there's
a pungent whiff

of asshole cut
with something like

ammonia. I am
as a lizard

to the smell of
mammal flesh,

an aesthete
about to have it

all, a black hole
dressed in silk

amythest pyjamas.
I hear

a languageless moan
from my own

lips, a break
upon the virgin

air, and the voice
of he who

others me,
spare and sharp

to my delight.
His thighs clench

hard, and he
begins to spume,

rimming my throat
with silver light.


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