(a kinda-sorta sonnet)

come to me, he said, my love
come to me and be my heart
my breath, my life, my wise companion
and sail with me on gilded wings
across a sky that knows no shame
into a world that knows no blame

be with me, he said, my love
be with me and be my tart
my bitch, my slut, with wild abandon
fuck my face and fingers, girl-whore
and ride my hard and leaking dick
to leave your cum upon it slick

i heard right, i knew, the first
i heard true and glistened all:
his breath, his life, his jumbled man-tongue
and sailed with him on gilded wings
across a sky that dare not see
into a world that could not be

where my bard was quick undone
his heart but figment’s fancy
and by his lust was held cheap ransom
fuck his face and fingers, did i
and took his shaft with cold constrain
his girl-whore now, mine self-disdain

seed then spent, his deed compleat
nought figment of mine fancy
my flesh did answer this heart undone:
an errant knight was he at best
i’d come to him, believed the lie
that crossed his heart and hoped to die

passion cold, stripped raw, unclothed
in my eyes, his lies struck mute
no chance for sway, he did abandon
this girl who’d sailed on gilded wings
who’d come to him, believed the lie
had crossed her heart, hoped not to cry

deeds of pilfered drupe thus wrought
from this bard, i took my leave
for breath, for life, mine own companion
i sailed away on gilded wings
across the sky that knew his blame
left this world: his loss, his shame

Last night, after a busy day of “much ado about nothing,” I was wired-tired. You’ve been there, right? Feeling all day like your left foot was nailed to the floor as your right one kept running you around in endless circles? Yeah, one of those days. So I was really ready to call it quits. Fresh from a hot bath I was looking forward to calling it a night and had been about the business of doing just that when my muse showed up.

“Not tonight, dear,” I told him. “I have a headache.”

But he was having none of it. Hopping up onto my shoulder, he pulled out his teeny-tiny muse-monkey and began spanking it. Not this time, I thought to myself, determined to ignore his lewd, rhythmic keystrokes—right there, beside my ear.

“You know you want it, Angela,” he whispered.

“No. No I don’t, Muse. Please go away.”

I looked longingly at the just-poured glass of merlot sitting on the kitchen countertop only a few steps away. I imagined the beautifully-bound anniversary edition of To Kill a Mockingbird awaiting me just down the hall—perched atop the pillows I’d just fluffed. I thought of the bedside lamp, its amber nimbus waiting to surround me in the sweetest of solitudes as I sank into my pillow to sip my wine and read a page or two of Harper Lee’s masterpiece before drifting off to higher ground.

“Go to your keyboard, Angela.”

Muse’s voice had taken on that sexy growl, the seductive tenor that always makes my little slut-digits quiver. I whimpered. He chuckled—that familiar sleazy snarl of a chuckle. Oh, how I hate you, you insatiable bastard. As if he could read my thoughts, Muse grunted, spit a gob of ink on his little quill and stroked faster. We both watched the jetty fluid oozing from between his pumping fingers, smearing across his knuckles.

I was getting hot—hot to trot right over to my keyboard and writhe, I mean write. The raunchy little raconteur inside me began to tremble. I wanted Muse’s hot jizz to conjugate and punctuate and catenate me. And his grizzled sneer told me Muse knew it.

“Nouns, adverbs, adjectives.”

“Muse, please stop. You know that sentence is incomplete.”

“Then fix it, Angela. You know you can’t resist.” His breath, smelling of parchment and indigo, blew across my fevered face. “Get your panties off and get your horny fingers over to that fucking computer and diddle with that fragment.”

“But…”

“I know, baby. I’ll make it good. Remember the old days? When we did it on everything? Index cards, notebooks, legal pads, steno pads and even napkins. Remember how you liked being bent over that Underwood you found at the yard sale?”

“Okay, Muse. Damn it, you’re right. Do me. Bend me like a bitch over that keyboard and make me your whore. Shove that fragment in front of my face and have your way with me. Use me like the pencil-pushing slut (virgule) strumpet (virgule) tramp (virgule) harlot that I am.”

“I knew you’d give it up,” Muse sniggered as he positioned me in front of the computer. “Now, you filthy little ink-slinging Pandora, listen to this.”

Hunched over the keyboard I opened wide as he started pumping it into me: “Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

“Give it to me, Muse. Give it to me fast and hard and dirty.”

“Grammar, punctuation, conjunctions, interjections, gerunds…”

“Oh, yes! That’s it. Do me. Pound it in to me.”

“Factitive verbs, predicate nominatives, indefinite pronouns, past participles, appositive phrases …”

Muse had me where he wanted me. He knew the dirty truth about the both of us: That I am his whore and he is my whoremonger. It’s been that way since I first picked up a pen. And so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Until his profane solicitations became the rhythmic movement of my sticky little fingers across the keyboard and once again, as he always does, the Muse had his way with me.

green

those left behind
will talk about us
our callous hearts
our selfish desire

fugitives, we will fuck
our way free of them
while fucking them over
fucking convention
fucking expectation
fucking our hearts out

like they knew we would
like the said we would

fucking will be
our new religion
you cock will be my communion
my cunt will be your baptism

and we will be happy

like they knew we wouldn’t
like the said we wouldn’t

While you’re tall, it’s in a gangly, almost akward way.

You’re quiet–except when we’re alone. I think it’s because you know I am safe for you. At least that’s what I want to believe.

You do read. And I like that. You even read the books I give to you. I like that even more.You bring me coffee in the morning and think I’m cute, even desirable, with bedroom hair.

You like to surprise me with silly, inexpensive presents. Like the frog that measures rainfall. And the set of butterfly magnets. Of course, there’s the love notes and cards I find here and there.

You’re not afraid to cry with me, although sometimes I find it more contrived than honest. I guess you could be more introspective. But perhaps you’re working on that?

Sometimes we are passionate about the same movies. Other times not. Either way, they give us plenty to talk about.

You teach me things. And don’t think it unmanly to learn from me.

And you don’t try to get me to eat lobster or lamb.

I think that, as far as couples go, we are doing okay.

Don’t you?