that gross beastly thing of mine in the grotto.
I love that ghastly demon dream.
but her bog sludge is too sexy
and scares my wrought heart like death.

sludge makes me greedy,
achy,
stupid.

I want to suck my bog baby,
and she wants to suck me
until I’m just a bruise.

something the color of wine,
the texture of oozing peaches.

the notion writhes between my legs
like maggots,
screams its grief
that I whimper and bear my hackles
and don’t open wide.

but I am gaping to the point of torment,

already bent over the banister,
needy,
disoriented …

it’s as embarrassing as it gets.