Poems on the subject of love making, part 1.

If you fill a bowl with his words
you'd call it refuse
even with the way he
delicately
drizzles them over your ear lobe
as they course along
the curves of your cartilage
they are viscous, slimy
bubbling with saliva.

The solidarity you're meant to
Feel
with his boisterous declarations
declarative decadence
his irreverence of love
couldn't make it past Last Night.
the last sip,
the last staggering steps,
that land in dreamless, drunk slumber.
The prideful pose
The parched innards, empty,
where the joy of discovering
indecipherable sun spots under another's eyelid
is meant to
flood every passage way, every cavity
but leak the countless ounces of that warm fluid
through the puncture wounds of pain
and loss.
"I can bind every muscle with your passion
and at will I can shrug it off," he'll say.
Then proceed to talk about a woman like she's the county fair.
"Her booty is a moon bounce,
her breasts scoops of ice cream,
her vagina is a water slide,
Boy, I can just hear the circus music when she walks."
But he'll slam the door on you, and cry in secret.
Dripping on to the body of his lover, left unsatisfied.