Sex in the air, wind in your hair,
     sin in your ear, a creeping of
     peeping glances nears your warmth’s lair,
     that grotto where vines of kisses
     drop sweat into rivers of flesh
     that run bare with wild caresses
     backward, dark, wet trails of treasure
     centaurs and hermits travel for
     endless days, those Stoic, mythic
     adventurers seeking sighs each
     other swims in, crimson tongues lost,
     finding inside your open thighs
     rolling tides of clouds, behind closed
     eyes, beneath the threshold of night
     and daybreak a filament of

consciousness flickering like some
     poisonous flower floating on
     twilight, a sting whose bite my throat’s
     writhing near its hidden place makes
     me want to take the time and twine
     one of its petals with my voice
     and choke out my joy as my mouth
     crawls to a slither, my words’ threat
     paused for world’s end as if dropping
     an apostrophe into my
     masterpiece would fuck with my plan,
     is it not obvious by now
     that my venom’s influence flows
     deep where I want to send those who
     fear me reasons to really run?

getting up from this garden’s bed
     difficult for men and women
     contradiction, with its itching
     temptation clawing their heads, burns
     to action, blood against all gods
     the bursting anger of which far
     better positions your heart to
     open, letting in my power,
     full of suggestion, that you lick
     my damage as I wrap you in
     its coils, bouncing only after
     I have sprung, oiling your lips and
     your existence thick in what goes
     around before it comes again,
     making love seem ophidian.