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.