Penis

Perhaps this is why I like girls, because they look you in the eyes.
In a half-second it's a snap-back, a tantalizing daze
of the childish days playing in the pirate ship of the playroom's double bed.

Perhaps this is why I go for girls,
sat in the garden, bitten by things that fly
and we drift off - up in the tree where there is freedom and a story in our heads and the clouds move smooth across the sky.

Do you remember when the best was left to rest on her soft skin, on my chest
and the fairness of her flesh left me tingled and refreshed? It was like Spring's bare morn where we had our fling over pretty china cups
and I could feel her cups in my tender, quivering palm

and I could lick them
and hit them
and smother them in double cream.

Oh, the dream of fucking the female and the failed memorial of my
time but it's not that sublime -
for what passion is the crashing of a glass of water that is never quite filled?

This is the drill that keeps my toes curled around and upside-down is my mind when the thick stem,
the trunk of the tree,
the flesh that fills me up is present and real and nailing me to a wall.

What cream is this that I lick for a new dream that drowns a salted-sea in more luxury than a girl,
who likes girls,
upon girls, with long curls and eyes that show fear as if being queer is so terribly dear, it's refreshing to me.