Sexless Sex

So many inches
so many ounces
so many bounces
so much sex

so much clit
so much cock
lick and poke
around the clock.

Once we have
fucked times a million
held up our trophies
and quoting Quintilian
"The perfection
of art is
to conceal art,"
a balloon busting dart
that shatters and scatters
erotica fare,
for only to climax
is going nowhere.

If it were true
tamed straight
by the station,
non-emptiness through
our masturbation,
nothing more further
would bother to be,
closer to you
or closer to me.

The losses
we've suffered
aren't made up
in orgasms
but rather
in closeness
and intimate hours
making all reason
by cuddling showers.

Biochemical spills
of outrageousness
can never fill
an empty old pagelessness.

Memories new
are what I acclaim
will bring down the house
and heal all our shame.

Waiting and baiting
yet pushing right back
too hurt to touch
and too scared to hack.

Where does this leave us
on track number 9
potion or lotion
or doubled up spine?

runningturtle87