Lust, a sonnet

Lust unbridled, bit spat out, once swayed Her hips.

And I, a weak-fleshed extravaganza of immorality

did thirst and drink from lips

so swollen, meat purple, as to evoke a sort of genital profanity.

With the whip-crack dominance of will

she parted her knife-cut mouth in ecstatic praise.

Her gyrations smeared anointing oil

across my bruised eyes and dewy, gasping face.

She never took notes as She sat on de Sade’s lap

for She knew that this lover of the furred Venus

craved only Her disdain, Her use, Her slavering gap

spread open, hollow, wanting, and generous.

But dear Lust, you shan’t be my mistress anymore.

I’m tired, I am chafing, and my jaw is getting sore.

 

 

Hear it on SoundCloud.

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