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Give me something more to go on,
lying spread-eagled on the floor and
loving the bump and grind that’s
so at odds with the midnight queen playlist.
The promise of the two-hour-orgasm,
pouring wine from my mouth to yours.
More than the sunset tattoos of bruises,
red hand marks on my flesh.
A different delineation.
A new kind of thrill.

Give me something more to go on:
more than my own desires.
The curling of my toes, held fast on the edge,
blood-basted and sticky.
Slick with the urge to eviscerate my essence
shark-circles slow like southern paddle fans.
And then you say something
along the same vibrating lines
promise me desire and delight
formerly found in the pages of my novels.

Give me something more to go on,
better than my own battered heart.
The streets of Dublin and the armour-piercing
beauty of your hope combine
to undo me, standing in black lace
feeling like a weathervane.
Whilst you smooth yourself over my callouses
embracing the darkest parts
of my tangled salty soul.
sociopathic honesty. 
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Submitted on
February 3, 2015
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