Streetfighter

I'm enchanted and enraged at the same time.
I feel like a brawler outside a bar
swaying back and forth on the balls of my feet
chanting
come on motherfucker
come on
bring it
 
And you do.

You bring it in high-definition clarity
like we were filming porn and
burned the script
because there wasn't room
in this fuck-brawl to
see if the damn dishwasher
was broken, ma'am.

There was business to get to.
The business of you
doing me.

The business of me
doing you.

You can't make this scene
filthy enough,
can't hurt me hard enough
to make me tag the mat and call off.

You can bring every
sick, sadistic piece of you,
wipe your dick on the backdrop
and hurl it all at me like a weapon,
and I'll sit in a chair in the corner
fingering myself to each thought
because I've got some things to throw at you, too.

I've got some twisted little twinges
I want you to pull apart with your teeth.

I want you to not just hump
my pretty little secrets,
I want you to fuck me on
the pile of skeletons in the closet
until the dried bones
of my horrors rattle
in macabre tempo with
each
thrust.  

And have no doubt,
that as I'm waiting here
on the balls of my feet
eyes closed,
crotch slowly swaying
like a cobra,
to get this
motherfucking brawl going,
waiting for someone to yell
action...

that you're cast in all parts
of this fight-porn;

you're the lead,
and the stuntman,
the hero,
and the villan;
you're the orgy,
the gangbang,
the countless pricks
circling me in the alley,
like sharks smelling
blood in the water.

you're an endless
mind-cock
on which
I'll never get my fill
and I'm enchanted,
enraged
at the same time.  
licking my lips
and chanting
come on
motherfucker
come on
bring it

and
you
do.