“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.” (Sylvia Plath)
Untether the implacable lattice of desire.
It takes spunk guts a splash
Of pressing passion.
Heavy charge necessitated. To split open
The proselytized candour.
Flames, streams of
Ardent traces, anions and cations
Of penetrative impact.
Deep down perfectly shut.
As the glass beside my left thigh that reveals
Leaked, cleaning molecules
Of extinguishing fluid.
Add. The dexterous fingers stumbling in fabrics,
Stroking the mounds and the concavities
Designed beneath a trembling smooth deprived
Layer of velvety skin.
More. The fountain and its effervescent spurts
Sucked inside the womb of the earth,
The neglected wasteland. Melting completion.
Yet. The excitable banter of
Wet touchy insistent lips
That inscribe an erotic chapter of “irreplaceable”
In your distracted memory.
A spontaneous bouquet of
Scattered absorbed licked
Sensations. One to one. Plus to minus. Crest to valley.
A bursting watermelon from which you squeeze
The lust up to the last
Translucent globule. Until none left.