Bang me up in episode 6 between the sheets and the axe of your
cock’s throttle with no soundtrack and my cunt’s anticipation
harboring no animus to your cock’s anvil, with just a porn moon
taking out a mortage on my hip bones without a script
between thigh and tilt writing my own sequel of sin and silk
to the highest bidder of my clit’s method anchor, with no cue
or score on the silverscreen without a prop-master,
picking up the debris of my cunt’s muscatel
unraveling the sheets with your tongue pressed against
the hollow, sailing into the wind of my flesh and skin
knowing that it’s not algebra, as I wear my stigmata
listening to your liturgy colliding between the axe
the night’s good bones and grace of your cock’s throttle
with a hunger that rattles the soul between the folds
of my labia majora, the body wants what the body wants
“Twinkle twinkle, that’s all she wrote, bang me up,
in episode 6.”
