Today, you came into the atrium
half-baked, your eyes like cake batter, crumbly and
glazed over with a
dancing chemical absence.
You sat unconcerned, but I
shined upon you as a maiden of Dionysus
is want to; I covered you with
coy, creme-melted policy
and a beige-hearted cocobutter scent
and left you roiling in your awful
loins.

I am putatively presumed to worship in
gauzy garments in the lush masonic gardens of
Priapus, sitting for long complex hours upon
many a thought and head. In a manner
that one may consider profligate, I let these fancies
smear themselves around till they are quite
enveloped in themselves, leaving
everything to rumor and nothing to honest
speculation.

It is not so bad, however.

It excites many.

You, certainly.
For you may think you have yet fooled me,
but I did see that ferreting in your brow and the quailing stir
that I had long-considered debauching. You would
have me back, I'm sure.

But it would be less you taking me back,
than me myself deigning to again play my mouth a flute
on unhallowed
— nay, on soiled
ground.

A little chip on my integrity but I
feel as if I could lose that piece of my manhood
to you.

11.23.09.