- a poem by Malcolm Beckett


Lust's a very gentle thing; here,
let me loosen that,
it slides my hand among the silks of satin you;
here, I will help with that; it must be binding

Urgency's no word for what this is;
bestride me and we'll both be mewling, soon
but wait and I will open other doors;
please tell me what this feels in you,

Are you as soft within as breast would promise?
Are we as antic now as you remember?
Is this the way the silkness feels from that side, and
will you please keep doing that a while?

Haste makes me waste; I'd never hasten this, unless
my bursting timber made you want it gone
we are slow-sucking living juices
and the rhythm's not so easy anymore; I want it now

But tiring's easy now, so say when you are fevered,
for I can tell no longer what is real
this drunken reeling limb is yours, remember.
and this clutching hand was mine when we began

Make dreadful noises, cover mine with
shattered thunder of your own, for plunging
thighs and inward ache make roarings in my ears,and
I can hear a noise from yours that lights your eyes

This is delightful open wide and make me feel your
lust inside me; this is getting out of hand,
and I and going to scream, so be prepared,
I'm in a thund'rous torrent that is tossing this small log

Forever silkward; Death, take me now
or let this be reality
forever; let it go
and crash
yourself
back
onto me
again!

Migod, there's some mad thing out there
that bellows like the Sun...