Yesterday’s poem should have been the last.
My muse of erotic haiku blows me a kiss good-bye?
Yes, she says, perfect.
Maybe it still is?
But you’re not done yet.
But I have you.
But maybe I’m also ready for another lover.
Because you’re not that kind of a muse.
What kind am I? she asks.—
Your the kind who crawls when she could run, who clings to loose sheets when she’s dragged by the ankles. who cries—No!—when she arches for cock , who pleas—Not in my pussy!—when he comes on her coming. You’re that kind of muse, only wanting to be sure she’s chased when she runs.
Oh, my little erotic poet, you’re so cock-sure of yourself!
····her orgasm—holding her
Redbud | February 27 2017