What is sex, and why? What in it –
beyond the propagation of a species –
do we think we have to buy? On what
result of it can we rely? Is it fun?
A spastic act? A fact or a phantasm?
Is it the alternating current of a body with
a body feeling powerful or overcome or
both that keeps us craving it until we die?
Haven’t said a damned thing yet
about why I can’t wait to get into a bed
with you that isn’t facile rhyme. I’m writing
poems when I ought to be igniting me
and you into a brazen blaze of hot blue
flesh and reckless tenderness –
a dangerous unfettered mess of trying
to make sex be more than sex. I’ll come,
my instigating bum-be-dum,
oh yes, I’ll come, I’ll come,
don’t worry, soon I’ll come, yes:
coming is what I’ll do next.