Electric Lamb

Send in the para-masturbatory unit
     if I fail to meet your Pavlovian
     conditions, since this arrangement
     isn’t even enough of a reason

to be compromising my belief in honest
     communication. I wanted a man
     steadfast in his handling of his
     machismo if it met disagreement.

Disarming, a masochist’s method of love, it
     can be alarming, put a sadist on
     trial if his harming’s unfit
     and not having a defense offends him.

‘Electric lambs,’ who’d have conceived of them? Unlit
     until led licking and pleading on an
     exodus, hand-fed promises
     that each of us would meet dark temptation

in the uncivil twilight of an unraveled
     dusk, we clutched a frayed blanket, embracing
     it as if night was ours to rip,
     Vegas-stripping down vagrant paths to ruin.

So truth, in the nude, comes into your mouth’s room, puts
     up its feet, and teaches us we shouldn’t
     believe in those bold electric
     lies since such blind sacrifice can breed schism.