This is to complain about morning-sex sheets.
The cream cheese muffins lightly nuked
Couldn’t politely be refused, but
Then you go and sit your bare ass down
On my side, and I washed these sheets on Sunday.
You know how anal I am. And though I roll
Sometimes onto the guest side and soak
The ghost up of your fleeting heat,
I do like to lie here and read,
But I hate laying Vogue
Where somebody’s ass has lain.
(Lover, note the lay/lie distinction,
Adeptly handled, proves me not unworthy
To cast complaints. My grammar, my pierced
Left nipple, these are worth many muffins.)
Then to top it all, you move on top of me.
Beneath I squirm, obliging, our muffin breathes mingled.
Tits to tits, quim grinding quim
Like a gilt-y Victorian tome. Cunts congruent
Next with mouths, flicking crumbs and clits
(Crumpled sheets sodden with vein-thunder sweat,
Girl-cum, ass, all that body-mess).
Then you persuade me, by what mystic means
Memory fails to tell, to tongue-fuck your creamy ass
(Twice guilty now of trespass).
What a mess. Now, with this storm
I’m afraid to do laundry, lest
Wet sheets and I both be marooned in blackout
Basement dark. So, when streets shine moon-
Bright in night, I’m bound in warmth
Reeking of you. May you toss in bed and fuck yourself
Dirty as Thursday or Friday’s ditch-side snow,
As I do now, sweat-soaked, naked ’neath these sheets.
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