To a latter-day Byron, who made
          off with my heart like a true corsair—

                    i.

Charming the pearl out of an oyster
or an egg shedding its shell, moisture

knows well every crevice, trickles
until each swells those reddened nipples

your chest surrenders without protest
to that same ravenous mouth of his

which made of itself a diving bell
and toured this bottom it tore to hell,

tongue searching florid cavern after
torrid canyon for a disaster

or wreck to wreak new havoc upon,
peeling like an onion into one

he surfaced from, rising like the sun
summoning dawn to make off with some

dusky offering of musk for his
lips to waft onto the altar of

another’s flesh he kisses as if
just a moment spent with him was what

lasted as long as a monument
in the eyes we close when we come, sent

                    ii.

into those apoplectic throes that
defy with their honesty the past’s

very concept of faking it and
define frenzied fantasy’s true sound,

drowning our moans in bitten pillows
our bared fangs tear open, going full

Chernobyl as we blow out hard in
blaring stereo what fills our sin’s

holes and shakes the house, breaking the bed
we sink below decency and get

wet, never regretting having both
gotten it this bad getting to know

biblically the same wicked man
our jealous mothers warned us about,

if this is how it ends, then I am
an ouroboros who swallows down

what has no beginning, yes, my own
pleasure is my only reason for

living, which is what he said giving
generously as a king his sword.