paul weinman
lustful
the sight of you
the soft flesh swells
press at my skin
swells into my shapes
the pulse throbs
with its surrounding
its ebbing to mold
with my form
pushing through the rind
surging over muscles
sliding past fat
stroking sinews
to seep within bones
and yet I hardened
as if a skewer
penetrating flesh
writhing in wrap
of that injection
that splits the flesh
deeper with strokes
which swell and ebb
swell and ebb
until transfixtion