I Feel A Sin Coming On

I see halos above the heads of pretty boys.
The halos are fashioned from pipe cleaners.

I’ll make the first swipe over my skin, and you’ll follow, and if you cut yourself,
I’ll put a little piece of toilet paper on the cut, that’ll stem the blood flow;
maybe later when I know you better I’ll taste your blood.
But we’ll save that up for later.

I’ll teach you how to drive too,
if you don’t know how.
Instead of screaming at you when you make a mistake,
I’ll ******** you. In your car, in the parking lot behind that Jack in the Box where they beat that boy senseless the other night, carving f** into his back with a Swiss army knife.

This is a beehive we’re in.
I’ll shovel my honey into you.
If you get stung, I’ll try not to push the sting further into you.
Desire is a complex, honeycombed structure. Many-stinging thing.

We’ll take it at your own pace.
Real slow, as a snail:
did you know a snail could crawl across a razor without harming itself?
Wouldn’t it be fun to be able to do that?
Maybe when we’re together, our love will make such razor miracles possible.

You’re the kind of young man who wears shirts with collars and buttons:
you button the buttons to your throat.
That’s nice and polite:
it shows you’ve been raised properly.
But you do this to hide the hickeys from your family.

The hickeys that I’m going to give you.
On your neck in your car.
I’ll ******** you and make you claw at the fake upholstery.
You’ll suck on the silver door handles.

When I’m inside you it’s raining it’s pouring.
I’ll transport you.
We’ll arrive we’ll arrive we’ll arrive.

I’m the kind of person who will tear off the buttons on your shirts while you’re sleeping,
drooling over your pillow, all that dream drool,
I love it, I love it, I love it, I’ll lick up your dream drool,
I’ll bottle it in old jam jars and sell it at church fetes to widowers and spinsters.
I’ll tear off your buttons just so that I can show you that I know how to sew on buttons.

How kind I am.

You’ll come to my house.
I’ll give you clear directions.
It’ll be easy to get to.
You won’t get lost unless I want you to.
I can roll up a map real tight with an elastic band and ******** you if you like,
a ******** have geography inside you.

Sex is like being at sea and not wanting to go back to ******** is going against the I,
derailing identity;
I love boy’s spines,
pale pale train-lines,
time-lines without the numbers.
Sex goes tearing into time.

Can I drag a bird’s beak down your spine?

We’ll talk and relax and get to know each other over a drink of coffee
or milk
or Coke
or some other sort of soda.

If we both want to proceed to explore a sexual relationship,
we’ll take it one step at a time,
itty-bitty baby steps,
babies gurgle
and fall over;
we won’t do anything we don’t both enjoy.

No hurry
no rush
no hassle.
If one of us is unhappy with the way things are going,
we’ll be honest about it.
If we can’t resolve a problem we can part company with no hard feelings.
Or,
we could haggle over the issue. I could take you to market.
I could always drill a hole in your head and pour soda pop in it.

Enough of you, now, for me.
I cannot tell a lie:
I’ll chop down that cherry tree of yours,
boy.
Boys in period clothes are a plus.

I love showering.
If you liked,
We could have another shower together when you arrived.
I could wash you thoroughly,
Scrape away at the surface of desire and tell you what I see.
I could wash between your toes so that you don’t develop fungus,
And behind your ears so that you don’t get pimples there although I have a weakness for pimples,
delicate volcanoes.
I could wash your a** until there is nothing to remind me that you are human.

Immediately.


Take it as you will.
Feedback is appreciated.