how poets love (circa 2013)

I’ve had a solid love life I suppose. 

I’ve been loved by all kinds. 

Women, men, gay men, bisexuals, trannies, pubescent boys & girls. 

Convicts and men old enough to be my grandfather. 

Men in far-away lands.

But as I thought about it all, and tried to imagine the best sex I’ve ever had, it always started with words. 

Words were the aphrodisiac. 

They were necessary and vital. 

Some of those lovers I never met in the flesh.

Some of them were born, existed and died by the pen. 

They made love to me with syntax. 

Slurped me up with style and diction. 

Stroked rhythmic throbs and compositions. 

Lured me with nervous mistakes made by their anxious hands. 

Suckled my gregarious proverbial clit with allegories of their engorged cocks. 

I called them Daddy and Darling.

I called them whatever they wanted. 

I dressed my words and flesh with cosmic garments, hoping my comet words would reach them, choke them, burn them. 

There were moments when my body cooked over open flames, tiny pins poking their way into my veins; my hands devotedly praying on my sopping cunt. 

We’d whisper under sheets and catch the loud thunderous strokes of their pens and their cocks, while I managed one hand deep in my cunt, to write and writhe, until both hands fell numb from complete collapse. 

As a poet and a lover of words first and foremost, I can’t help but feel emotionally and physically inclined to them.

Fuck me with verbiage first, and I’m yours, forevermore. 

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