To hear this poem, .
* * * * *
Outside our window,
The fires burn, intense and red.
So, I lay you down on the bed.
Down the street,
Machine-gun fire rattles the night;
You spread your legs, inviting
Me to be lost in your
Warmth.
I kiss your thighs
(outside, someone dies)
I find the spot that makes you moan
(the sound of destruction is a rhythmless drone)
You hold my head near
(we tremble, ecstasy or fear?)
Our window shatters,
We roll off the bed.
You're on top of me,
Consuming me.
You voice the sound of my pleasure;
I voice the sound of your fear.
We roll around, leaving
Marks where we've bled.
We make it back to the
Bed.
Our battle of
Self-invasion resumes.
I break your line,
You surround my crime.
An explosion crashes our notion of time.
In our last orgasm,
We write the final movement
Of war.
As the ceiling caves in,
Ecstasy, then nothing more.