An Orgasm Sonnet

...aaaaaand flesh junk so pressing a beat ago
steams away, and hands-turned-claws vainly grope
for grip on a BITCHIN' OUT-OF-CONTROL
MOTORCYCLE down Himalayan slopes,

through badland troughs, when the octaves crackle
like falling chandeliers, ground fine beneath
BITCHIN' OUT-OF-CONTROL MOTORCYCLE
wheels till air sparkles too bright to breath

and flailing hand-claws wave HI-HI-HI-HI-
HI above the rage of a BITCHIN' OUT-OF-
CONTROL MOTORCYCLE that also FLIES!
Then crashes as wingfeathers into fluffffff...

leaving someone on top, a scent like warm myrrh,
mouthfuls of shoulder, and an itch to purr.