Call me:
Gratifier
Rapid Fire
Strung tight, head slumped.
Push-pull as to not fall backwards.

Encompassing the absolute,
absolutely
will put wrinkles on your brow
and scare away every other
person you want to kiss.

Brazen and lustful
you speed ahead, thunder-ready.
A calf’s head coated in gold,
you leap from post traumatic sleaze disorder
into some vague sense of
"this may have been all you have hoped for"