I don’t really think about the guys
who think about me when they jerk off,
masturbation as a form of meditation

is enough of a thought worth my entertainment
since my fixation is oral, if we’re to get
Freudian about it, and you should

know by now that I never worry
about being “normal”, although my
predilection, for a gay man, seems

rather formal, in that it deviates little
from what is accepted as merely
cultural in our sphere’s existence

on society’s peripheral,
running, as we are, circles around this shrinking
world, flickering circuits making of

holes burning rings, lips with their flaming
tongues come to sing of, those epics torches burn cold
memories upon and energy within, but,

no, I don’t really think of the guys
who think about me when they jerk off,
since I’m more concerned about where to put

my mouth and not my thoughts, what I most
often want is to raise up a conjure of a
man whose spirit it is my tongue can

work its dark art upon, an untrue
necromantic, I crave the base aberrations
considered indecent by the mainstream of our

syphilisation, I am that fiend
who seeks the scent of disobedience, who wants
to lick breath and inhale a long day’s

damage, imbibing from his pits, from
his ass, from every crevice, that which, when mined,
rewards the nostrils with its riches,

my nose sweeping in a wealth, a hand
collecting a freshness of ripe fruit’s
flesh, tasting to his bones every

pheromone, if only to know he
is right or wrong for me, when there is
no right or wrong, and then, regardless,

eating, or pretending at devouring, toeing
the borderland of the figurative,
wandering its foothills, daring not

trespass too much, too stealthily lethal into
the literal, I desire to devour those gifts,
the grottos of origin of each

sniff scratched by my abandonment of
innocence into the claws of desire himself,
all of this ferocious play often

enough to convince me of that wisdom too oft-
denied, truths telling of the many curative
properties prophesied by a foul

mouth, and once I have craved his pits, tasted his ass,
wet every crevice, those hairy
parts darkness and dankness and sweat will

hardly relinquish without a struggle, I want
to summon from the depths of his bush
that cock my fist will pull with such monumental

existence into the magic of
my wicked circle’s circumference,
riding it as a hole in heaven

above and hell below meet to kiss
him with prose my poems only hint
at knowing, for coitus as full as

the moon, and my bank account, amounts
to a symbol, since sex itself takes
on the trappings of a ritual

when its pursuit takes on the habit
of a magus for each of fags who
finds it impossible to resist,

and this unapologetic sinner, so-called,
reminiscent of Apollo when
he seeds it then jets, in this, his humble grimoire,

this simple treatise, its words thrice as
“degrading” as any misunderstood work’s by
Hermes Trismegistus, seeks not to

give the whole picture, but only a
hint, that my thoughts are never of the
beasts with which I’m familiar, but those

parts of them to which I’ve been and still
fear, craving to draw nearer whenever I find
my mind having to suffice for lust’s

theatre, pointed and poignant as
a knife in a sacrificial act,
but never do I succumb to the

flood of the “backstroke”, never again
wanting to go, to return, to a
lover whose scent I’ve already learned

and since known, whose taste, whose come, I’ve already thrown
into my throat, since the underworld
is a bed with many sides, but only one way:

out.