Momentarily reeling,
head trying to spin
stuck to an ugly body:
it is the curse of thought.
And all I can think of
are my dirty fingers
pinching the wet skin,
the pelt of warm invitations
squeezing firmly
these lips
hidden in pubic-hair forests,
when,
puckered by my
pinching grimy digits,
I plunge (never as gently
as I know I should)
deep into the secrets of
recessed lust,
hunting for something
I lost so long ago,
lurching in & out,
watching for the sensation
of too much,
so that I can go further.