Martyr’s Song

Did a tongue run over lips eclipse
the bank of a dry stream like a fish on flips
and flopping like dinner, lunch.
You found my center and sunk your teeth in, crunch.

So my bones gave up the ghost to your lips, a gift.
A rift in time, so juicy like limes,
belly like a petal wilting, ticking like time.

Your voice like a gong, taste the sound of divine –
O lover where are we and must we still climb?

Will I rest, hashtag #blessed? I’ll eat your stress until I’m choking,
Til tears flood my eyes and it’s your body I am smoking,
Takes me high like a kind bud, like a junkie with open hands,
needing love but taking money, you supply and I demand.

In a chemical haze I do dream of the bees sipping clover,
Do they tremble and buzz with bliss when it’s over?
Does the bee pin the petals and penetrate the pistil
Is it different tasting rose, drinking thistle?

Which am I and does my nectar run dry in the sun?
We’re too wise to be two kids on the run but
The algebra runs tracks in my blood, where
I’m the control and the variable is every variation of you
as you tell me that you are him, and he is you, too.

The bees know orgasmic geometry like hieroglyphs,
You and I know a clumsy dance called desire.
I know your eyes, and your neck, and your lips,
You know my hips and a fountain which drips hot
like a pyre.

I’m a sacrificial liar, with my toes above the kindling
Jim Morrison bellows a song about fire and I’m singing
as you light me up. Strike me dumb. Wet my tongue
with righteous penance and aplomb.

Is it still martyrdom if the martyr is eager,
or is it just a trade of two souls in the aether?

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4 thoughts on “Martyr’s Song

  1. The ghost lives. Sex for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You’ve ordered off the menu, but nobody pays the check. It’s not necessary, since you’ve burned the place down and all. Thanks for another good one. Duke

    Liked by 1 person

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