my muse is here...

... half-drunk, he is. but here. which makes this little poem, i think, a bit iffy. oh well. you take what you can.

Hot Spell

On burning beds,
under hot tin roofs,
we toss and turn
inside our blistering flesh.
Lick, crackle, hissssssss...
The humming of desire
grows loud.

Hypnotized and mesmerized,
we touch
—ssssss—
and grow numb.
Only swollen tips
in wet mouths
betray this moment of weakness.

i think it's almost finished. am not sure about the title though. oh wait. the muse calls. he's all grumpy and looking for aspirin. maybe i'll give him prozac instead.