Porcelain chills my soul.
Access is via the tender, hairless places along the back of each thigh, slightly above scrapped knees.
The altar is adorned with glass cylinders of clear golden nectar, each radiating a reflection of the bathroom nightlight.
I breathe in.
The pungent aroma, it burns the lining of my sinuses.
And then seeps into the newly opened space of glands at the back of my throat.
My orifice is open.
Nothing left to ooze out.
Did they find the treasure this time?
If they did find it, will they come back and look for more?
I ease his torrent from my gurgling mouth.
Streams of nectar flow through my beard and down my torso.
I pray that he has drank enough from lifeís well to piss until each hair on my body is wet.
And the flow continues until they point the route from number two to number four.
The altar is bareÖ
Stripped of the glowing candles and transported across the continuum.
In the spaces where tender glands once lay, his ointment is a salve.
His fingers fill my orifice.
Someone once said there is treasure there.
A little boy trembles,
his fingers deep inside.
Why not an eye instead of a nail?
With it treasure might be more easily reclaimed.
But it is not that easy.
There may be a lot of digging yet, but Iíve staked my claim.
This time, itís finder's keepers.
I've read this at a few open mic nights in SF, CA. It is a powerful experience for me.
Your love should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger
Only to someone who has the valor and daring to cut pieces of their soul off with a knife then weave them into a blanket to protect you
There are different wells within us, some fill with each good rain
Others are far, far too deep for that