SEX in the MACHINE
Funny how the Doberman pinches at the heels of trapdoor
lust. Watch with aqua eyes. Swear you won’t forget you’re mine.
Funny when the preacher man wishes, not to do the knees.
Pinned to the wall, played like his organ… sex in the drum machine.
Feel pretty, synced up. Something like… being in tune? The
cadence is blue. Honey, my sweet, the hive is you. Something like, unbuckling your
buckle. Swear you’ll remember.
Pretty good on a wave. Pretty good as a slave. This valuable
thing, between my lips, these beastly arms, hold fast when I resist. My
American Fighter, doyen. This record is ruddy. I am martyring for you.
It was like, elemental, electrolysis. It like, separated
before it collated. Even if I linger a thousand years, it won’t wane.
The hand that feeds the bronco, bucking in the grass, also
cracks the whip, and pulls it taut, until it snaps. The furrows, the lines, the
swirls, the tides. The zipper is won. The zipper’s undone.
We enter machine, and you bang me as drums.
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