Act I

the fever hit quickly
it always did-
his lust compelled
brought her to him
wrapped in a rug

sans a compass
to moor within her,
astounded by the song
that played off her pelvis
with his semen

he swooned
taking her into himself,
wanting it completely-
his third eye in orbit
seeing nothing else

needing nothing more
and famished
for everything-
to pine as if
pining was lust


Act II

an open window,
lent inwards to the
weep of a violin
playing once through
and never again

the talent
of his consumption
for her
for a heartbeat,
a virginal moment

not to question,
with mind at rest
and body floating-
unflinchingly
in denial

lure of a dark cry-
he could not turn to her
nor could he let go
this perversion, where
air thins till there's none


Act III

trembling
at the mercy
of his lover,
there was no grace
and none sought

orgasmic
words and thoughts,
erotic intellect
flowed-
anonymous art

his fingers,
tight within
the leaking chink
to staunch the flow
but never tried

the irony
was not lost
how it ended,
drawing out more
than one fathomed