On Lust

Something about cutting my hand. Or else, something about the verisimilitude of passion/love/lust/desire and the vicissitude it brings by being at once a perfume and a poison. (Who says the two cannot be one?) How intoxicating it can be, as it lulls you to your death! But yet, we drink from it still, for we have no other wish than to be made to sleep; lulled into eternity.

The sex you expound-
it must be rancid!
That such effluvium could leak
perennially
down your legs, or
extending in waves from
your mouth, or
branching out, as in
tiny dunes from your
finger-tips.
That subtle pressure that grows-
it all adds up,
you know,
sure as the tin
will sink its rim, deeper,
into the pliable skin
of my thumb.
It bites,
it bleeds,
it bleeds as you bleed,
and the blood of your lust
shall drain evermore.