Ironic really, how only when
My heart is coiled in agony throes
Only when my lips bleed can I
Kiss my muse's feet with love.
This is not agony, though, this
Is manufactured parallel joy and
Angst, oh hell, yes
Because where would a poetess be
This is the very moment of balancing on the ridgepole
This is walking along the mountain's cliff edge, and
Feeling the exhilaration of gravity's pull.
Let us entwine today, lover,
And grapple with these tender needs
Let me salve your soul and wash your feet and
Take all of you into my mouth
And together we can cry to the dawn that she's
Come too soon, again!
And your heart beats in a thousand pockets, and
Mine on a battered tweed sleeve, but
That is not our worry, my love.
Wrap yourself around me and turn up the bass.