The willing Slave
The tongue, loitering in the mouth,
alien to her mother.
Kaleidoscope of straightened objects,
pathetically dangling on the floor,
thoughts congealed into a slump, sickened
by its own reflection.
Stomach, stiffened, set in over—indulgence,
shadows shift from one body to another;
displayed like wasted fruits on a table.
Whipped, white breath, dirty filthy,
to seduce and own the moment,
her skin tinted by his dirty shadows
dancing, hopping, miming, mocking,
drunken by his possession,
once a slave, only now so yielding.
Take me, for, if I am what you say I am,
call me by that name: ‘a dirty filthy slave’.
After the hangover, she spews him out,
yes—he the dirty filthy slave, unshackles
himself into to his own jugular.
