One-hundred and Sixty-three: Blind

I want to write you all night long, a song
I’ve heard so many times, though I never
seem to remember the words. You’re a
favourite leather belt  I use for flagellation;
every strike is rife with desire. You own me.
You make me beg you to let me be on my knees.
You fill me like a condom. I glisten at your
touch, great big hands grabbing my throat,
squeezing out every poem. You stab me
with your eyes. I see you better when I’m
blind. I scratch you onto every page. You
watch me, dazed and bemused, using my
anguish to get off. We’re wet with inspiration.
You colour me in. You and I, we’re forever.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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