FUGUE #13, Spring/Summer 1996
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from me ... I wanted more. Back then, you called me to rebel and escape what the world required of me-all your seductive sayings-"my white-hot cock in your deliciously wet cunt," ''banging my rod in your drum," "fucking and fingering, and licking and sucking, fucking and fucking until we fuck our brains dead.," you whispered in my ear, in my mouth, in my hand ... Words. Then deeds. Now words again ... I want you-in deed. You could have spoken. Dear Two-Zs-
What could I say? You have me. Here. I write these words on the waves you see from your window printing my homecoming on the shore, the clouds paraphrasing my thoughts then editing them across the horizon, your window the only pane between us. I am the thought that warms your soup at night. Turn me on. Please. Dear One times Two ...
I turn you on, then I burn ... My body aches with loneliness for yours, and you are lost, playing another game in dead earnest. Call this body to be healed with your mouth, your words, eat me alive ... No passion moves me so deeply or with such shame. I told you before that I might want too much and that my appetite and extravagance would embarrass you-a lyrical excess, now that I think back. I think it was the vehemence of that immoderate love, my terrible pleasure that titillated the creature in you. Then, you left me at the corner, saying, "I'll call you. I care 12