The lover of a subversive/is also a subversive, so said Martin Espada. So said The Girl with booze on her breath when her eyes were very dark green tonight and asked me to trespass on the undiscovered countries of her body that have yet to be abused. When sex is the last subversive act, so said Steve Erickson, I am a guerilla. This drunk already, when she showed at my door - dispossessed, or possibly possessed, a wobble in heels, a slur in a black skirt - wondered where she’d been and what she’d been at. When the human engine waits/Like a taxi throbbing waiting, said Eliot and when her skin finds my hands I find her throbbing, barely waiting under her own skin and she is very nearly vibrating out of existence. Dirtier than normal she says. Harder she says. Like this she says. Unf she says. She’s the one you’re scared of, so says Addonizio, the one who dares you to go ahead. Sometimes sex is love but mostly it’s just sticky wet hot slick fucking but sometimes it’s obliteration and she put my hands on her throat. Yeah she says. She wants to hurt tonight and the gouges in my back are the color of blood. Love is the way we boil, so said Bukowski, love is your father in a coffin/(who hated you).
She’s either satisfied or satiated when she passes out on sheets damp with the wet of sex. Tonight her sweat and tears tasted the same. The black dress in a crumple on the floor was her funerial best.