hardwood floors,

   catch me in the rye, drill me to the core
         dug too deep but still want more
   hear the champion sound, echoed in my arteries
     drain me like an IV bag, ready those blood packs;

                I’m howling at the moon, coming straight for your lungs
      terror ripped from my mind, ready to steady myself
                                     on those lips –

     your fingers tear me apart, gut churning with butterflies
              you told me I wasn’t going to get anywhere without you
     I told you I was going to live without you;

                  you settled me in the barn, nestled with the horses
    threw back the blankets and buckets
        helped yourself to my body
                                        banquet, unceasing
                                        wine, overfloweth

   sent your tongue to explore my throat
               ended up at the bottom of a barrel, drunk on the rest of me
     scarred fingers wound up in my hair, and then everywhere
           there was no such thing as cordial or elegance –

                         throw me over your saddle, cowboy
                                  for you, I’d save wild horses
                                  for you, I’d climb deserts

      entranced by the sway of your head
            face to face with your chest,
                you bellow like the forges, throwing iron and hot waste
           shape me as if the cattle prod was reaching out for you
     move me like your best mount

       I’ll follow where you guide me, you just have to ask
  spurs give results, ones you asked for
                 pain versus pleasure? never met her.
      coinciding with one another, alive and yet living

                           I’ve never seen the barn floorboards
          but who cares about grains when you’ve got hardwood
                           to whittle into a piston, chock full of what gives me life
          emptied, but not empty, rolling through the hay
                   is this what they do in lover’s lane?

                they need a better idea, keep your stockings and trimmed hedges
     give me mean and lean, a working man
                     eyes like the sunset and hands like a steer
       footfalls bring thunder and lightning but heaven is in tears
                   because he’s a handsome devil,

          skirting the surface of what you want from him
            and what he wants to take
                                        no leather bound material or bootstrapped –
                                                     unless you ask nicely –
          and his hand pressed against your mouth as you multiply and die
                hundreds of times over

              but the reaper’s got nothing on him
                       and god is terrified by him
     so when the right hand of earth is buried deep
                         what do you tell the priest on Sunday?

       “God let me sin.”
                       sorry Father.

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