Open mic night

I’m going to fuck you
while reading
your poetry
aloud.

You’ll be on the couch,
unsuspecting until the moment
I click into the room on
high heels made of sin,
in a scene
right out of Rocko's school for
softcore-porn

A binder filled with
crotch-inspired dross
in one hand,
the other lightly tracing up
the long, long length
of my cool white thigh,
clad in thin, black, lace.

And you’re going to lean back
amused, waiting to see what I’ve come up with,
until I drop my knees on either side of you,
slam your shoulders
against the couch
rip your shirt off between
feral kisses,
dispelling your
amusement
like smoke in a
tornado.

With the same
heedless mercy,
I’m going to ride you —
contrary to the build up —
slowly,
while reciting the best ofs
from my second
favorite
staff
(your pen)

And just to see how it feels
with your breath on my neck,
I might turn things around,
sink back on you,
facing away yet fully
enveloped,
my back molded to
your front
as your tense arms
find their way around me,
take the pages from me
and correct
my inflection
while I recall
the exquisite agony

of being
(recreated)
within the dark forest
of your mind.

I'm going to

fuck
you

while reading your poetry aloud.

It's only fair, love,
since within those words
you've so irrevocably
fucked me