The tissues plucked with all my might
The sun is down, the day is done
Now I flex my fingers, begin t’ strum.
Like milking of ambrosial flower
Today’s the day, and here’s the hour
And thou’ I fear finding such lump
I blindly start to wildly pump.
My lip is bitten with such force
That later I may feign remorse
Yet my flower blossoms to new caress
As on the screen they all undress
The symphony of such heaving meat
That writhes atop the stainéd sheet
Disgusts me, while in equal measure
I test the limits of mine pleasure
The moonlight shafts through curtains weary
Alights like phantoms shapes made dreary
Pale light on subtle vertices
The most intimate of surfaces
I attain the summit of my joys
In this, most futile of employs
I gasp, and clench, (They’re speaking French)
And explode with thoughts of that fine wench
Jets like Danube stain my sweating palm
As I cease the pneumatics of mine arm
And then I feel such woeful guilt
For scattered ‘mongst the quilt it’s spilt.
I clean up like some murderer
And whisper such a silent slur
Against my wanton crim’nal lusts
That forc’d it out in sem’nal gusts.
The stains remain, the stains I see
How will I thus explain to thee?
They mark my sheets like bloody hands
But this incrimination’s from mine glans.
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