Drinking Me In

There is pale orthodoxy in your plays:
Dark skin's predestined for all of the marks
You'll drink in; though, at first, you barely gaze
At me; I wonder how you'll whip the parts
Of flesh to bear your rambling slash and star
In the sadistic ruins you could make;
What unrepentant whispered words will scar
My ears; and when you will humiliate
By finding ink for me to set this down?
For I'll never remember through the veil
Of sensual pain I'm caught in; you have found
Tradition renders a dark hue quite pale,
Attuned to ideas, written, without pen,
On flesh, reflecting sweet triumph again.