The percussionist plays a tune on strings cut loose from a sinking line
Who said beats were intended to be even or same
Red hot streams curdle through pathways linked back to pounding sensations
Let him play a tune such as you’ve never heard, read or seen
And when he’s done, summon his gait, his pride rocked firmly between his thighs
Make him tell you no lies even as he rah-tah-tah-tas…
Splays his fingers inside your pride
Don’t hold back the bubble ripening inside
Burst forth
Like a rocket ship, leave nothing behind in your line of fire
No looking back
He’s already ash.
~SM
Image borrowed from Negrawithtumbau.com
She has an interesting post on sexuality linked here.
Words Become Me 