Sons of Onan

imagining it’s your lips
and not my fist wrapped around
it today, that pleasure rips
and ripples with the metered
whipping, petered pawing, raw

rubbing, stubbled and stumbling
frequency of warm shadow
ebbing and flowing, light’s grip
stroking and growing before
throwing out its webs over

its head its explosion wets,
this blowing up my darkness
lets whitewash as if any
thing about these thoughts were at
all sanitary or sane,

driving me crazy the way
you play naïve when really
your body knows more than my
mouth can say in response to
how yours, in silence, takes in

so well, swallows whole, what i
hope you’ll tell the whole world is
the best load you’ve ever had,
that i’m the best at giving,
in reward to what you give

in giving your all, in lieu
of paying temptation’s toll,
this viscous metal, molten
steel waxing victorious
mercurial, melting all

over us both as i bust,
feeling, real if only for
a moment, out of such an
exertion’s hot-to-the-touch,
soul-riveting tumult, what

seems, even if ever so
fleetingly, even when we’re
done, when we’ve both been bitten
then eaten so severely
(and with no apology) by

the bitterest bitterness
of that come-down, “calm down, it’s
only come, now…” bitch we call
reality, a love which
does not rust, what neither of

us has yet or will soon touch,
at least not again until
we meet in the noontide heat
of down-low discretion to
have each other for lunch, fiends

feasting on what we want and
speaking of it to no one,
agreeing to redact your
name if i rave about you
in some poem that pours forth.