Ode to the Poe-t
As the werewolf howls forlornly to the moon upon its first change, exquisite pain strikes the veins, pours over, pours thru like magma, never ceasing, burning me, can’t stop the orgasmic pleasure piercing me, nay, my atoms through to my molten core.
A slave to your tidal pull, insipid fool, longing for the sting of Cupid’s arrow, shoot me up, again, again with line after line of the good stuff. Hit me up poet man, I’ll never get enough.
Glutton for punishment, I am a heathen, a slob, a sloth, a vain enraptured diva, jealous, shallow, miserable, an empty whore on her knees, mouth open wide, pour your pain over me. I drink it in greedily, let the burn begin.
Writhing in beautiful agony upon your dirt floor, hit me again drunkenly, rip my heart out in blood filled hands, pin me to your door
Let me in mister dealer man, please I need some more, the last one left me wounded, dying on the floor, addict, addicted, bound to your wounds, rip the scab, let it pour into my
haze filled swoon.
I am but a werewolf, howling at the moon, addicted to your pull, harsh desperation, a bloody tidal pull, change me deep, borne again, each verse dripping new.
C. Nola 11/22/2020