No more. It is space. It is gone. Gone
is the sweet task of pleasure from here,
on paper, on tongue, and I rock from side
to side, swinging, spasming with my attempts
to reach being, but there is no fruition.
Words trickle from my mouth only barely.
This self died long ago. A heart that does not pump
pushes my pen.

My thirst for lust is excruciating.
Already the universe begins to bleed
into a mouth distended with craving.
I choke on clauses, on sensation.
I have become the point. This is the cost
of not surrendering. The raging on.
I give in and fight possession. Rocking.
Biting empty air. Groaning. Forcing.