Why does life so often seem both

                promising and desolate

                      in the same breath?

This is a ‘proof-of-concept’ poem to support my claim to spontaneity.  No preconceptions, just wordflow, unreworked, two minutes (sips of coffee between lines).

Not autobiographical, probably not revealing of any inner libidinal urges, more nearly just a mind-tap into some darkly erotic scenario being played out somewhere in the world. ‘Fess up—I’ve hacked into your fetishistic stream, haven’t I?

how pretty-undies your favorite pose,

how unerotically I’m swayed

laying dormant in the tub

as filthy-drunk as any knave.

but, oh, your tantalizing toes

will do it every time:

up, dripping, naked, and on the floor

sucking sweetly upon thine.