Call Me, Ishmæl: Or, Moby’s Dick

                    i. Pin

Love is two people
     penetrating each other
     syringes of some language
sticking together
     tongues of leather in one mouth
     harpooned leviathans hit
by that kiss that rips
     through its denial’s menthol-
     cool hubris what rush of licks

                    ii. Prick

kids never can kick
     once st(r)uck, twice-bitten silence
     enough to convince rebels
how better it is
     than a riotous fuck this
     quiet collision of spit
flame quenches and twins
     when cautious lips abandon
     public opinion and live

immolating their
     chained hearts on desire’s altar
     saving themselves by sinking
bullets into heads
     getting it without giving
     in, temptation to quit wet
experience for
     inhibition’s bone-drying
     second-thoughts a fate worse than

total inaction
     or stone-cold sobriety’s
     glass prison, with its thin walls
that torture a soul
     by forcing it to listen
     and thirst for what the heart wants
forbidding tied hands
     from fulfilling sight’s demands
     not a viable option

                    iii. Pull

for darts blind to all
     opposition, this passion
     p(r)icking its targets neither
by strategy nor
     with precision but divine
     art, love’s fix falling like sparks
and junkies do, on
     just the right spot, coming down
     without missing those it marks.