In The Mouth of Desire
Dryness is such in me I cannot speak,
articulate my thoughts, desires, tongue-tied
I am, and in your presence, a poor, weak
servant, who, in asking, has no self-pride.
Your parted ruby lips, while mine are dry,
in contrast, glisten with overt desire;
a tongue across them means I will comply?
To deny, would turn me to a liar.
And should the hair shirt dryness moisture meet
in doing so articulate my thoughts;
I feel that I would still be incomplete
for you are you, and me, a psychonaut.
Kiss me, kiss me slowly is all I ask
why is that such a complicated task?
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