{erotomania, filmed}

I have a pornographic memory.

It tells me erotic stories about people I've just met,

half-remembered kisses in

darkened hallways

like singed lips

from teppanyaki aluminium squares

rendering them white-hot

and peeling.

This is the explanation afforded me

when I face the mirror in the morning,

visage masked by nights of love

vestigial abuse

in every curve.

I don't always remember what we did.

Sweat rolls tracks down

the hi-res glossies

of how I met

your mother.

Her rippled thighs and

creampie skin

baked into the rough caresses

contouring every glance.

I have a pornographic memory.

I have not forgotten

what it was like to run

reverent fingers into

the secret pockets of your sin.

Your eyesockets look beautiful

without those greasy raccoon-eyes

you smear on

before our every encounter.

My memory is as good as it ever was;

I do not claim

to be perfect.

I have slight issues

with names,

like you would have

with faces

or girlfriends

or tongues.

So you still have my card, do you?

I still have your virginity.

Of course I don't know

we had an appointment.

But I know all too clearly,

(and I hold fast so dearly)

to what you taste like.