Slab of Meat, Woman of My Dreams

I find no pleasure in
this misdirected madness.
Repress the confusion
with thrusts in deformed unison,
the secrets flood back
as my shriveled hands
search the rigid bedroom
for a perpetually rogue
rationality.

Wipe me off of yourself.
The smell of freshly snuffed
romantic tension,
of rubbing cheeks and
holding hips with fingers
eagerly pointed towards
the fathomless vastness,
that repugnant scent
has lingered in my air for too long.
My youthful ignorance sapped;
I can no longer entertain
Medusas and Sirens,
what was fun
has become a curse,
a deadly sin, for sure.

Cherub of my dreams,
descend on me now
as I finally go to sleep.
My essence is yours
to inquire about,
to poke at, and use
as a sacred source
of inexhaustible warmth.
Unknot my confusion,
wipe the ruin from my eyes,
teach me the art of presence.
Please hurry,
as my cat would love to meet you,
and I'm known to make
a great pot of coffee.