i need to wear your black shirt.
i want our polaroid pictures scattered on your bed.
i want stacks and stacks of dead
and seven bottles of champagne on ice,
in the bathtub;
i want plastic chairs that wipe clean.
i want blindfolds, and animal masks.
i want a cut-throat razor, a ewer of water delicately fragrant
of rose oil and a plain white towel – clean and stark
and i need you to remain very still… despite
being afraid of the dark…
i want kisses like swarms of bees.
i need you on your knees.
i want blood on the walls and headless dolls,
mannequins broken and abused.
i need your silence, but i want your screams.
i want no rhyme or reason
– no precursor or foreplay.
i need your spontaneity, and drive.
i want what lies
behind those eyes.
i want bruised knees and broken glass
but do you trust me?
or do you want pain?
i need you to read to me
i want to collar you
and lead you.
i need to feed you.
i want an absinthe fountain to bathe in
i want vibration,
i need to shoot you from the hip
with a stylish 16mm alligator finish Bolex Paillard,
which we will furnish with screams
and smears of lipstick
and bodily fluids.
i want fire, and fingers of flame.
i need to know you,
really know you.
how would you feed the insatiable?