Stemming the Rose, Pitting the Cherry, Casting the Stone

                    i. Stemming the Rose

Down in the dive bar of my heart
where your hard words blood works over
until they burn off hurt pressure
lowers turn out more than they’re worth

settling scores with a scourge fire learns
never to ignore, warning scars
before they can form that what harms
more than wanting you in my arms

is your mouth’s warmth forcing apart
with tongue pressed to lips the way fists
hit home through a wall’s bricks tougher
myths to accept than your swagger’s

brazen bravado no other
man’s machismo can account for.

                    ii. Pitting the Cherry

Muscle of leather licking up
a crème fraîche lather looking for
another’s load this floor hordes with
pride indifferent to wealth, how

furious your temper as you
work harder, faster, stronger, much
better than before, when your rushed
attempts failed to catch its rich plough

of thick flesh suitors oystered rough
until trading its reward for
something more, a kiss perhaps, but
no one kisses this part unless

fetish throws them below, enough
being told not to begs men give.

                    iii. Casting the Stone

Sweat rolled between fingertips, balls
filling in crevices of hands
lined each with heat feeling them swell
into weeping drops needing to

be felt seeds with deep thoughts never
by someone so mechanical
beheld these truths you have yet to
let drench you as love has me, fool

as I am having meant more flawed
to someone more versed in matters
of passion than you are, cold-
hearted and too perfect to tell

you now that the bottom who falls
out with his top fills in the well.