To Her Coy Lover

Since I already gave you something disgusting this early Monday morning, here is another disgusting thing. It's an old poem of mine, perhaps having to do with addiction speaking to a person, perhaps more of an answer to all those poems like To His Coy Mistress:

Loving You

Let us make love then
on the featherbed.
Remind me of the time when
I will be cold and dead.

And I will come to you
naked to the bones.
And I will walk through you
and echo in your moans.

And our bones will lock and creak
and our hearts will sweat.
My lips will peck yours, like a beak
and make you cold and wet.

Let us make love then
on the featherbed.
I will let you know when
my appetite is fed.