Warm butter through the skin and cold steel,
Like a pressure valve,
Like a song.
So sweet and kind and fierce,
With broken bottles,
And sexy.
Just touching what you want,
Just grasping at its tail,
Sliding around muscle and bone
Loving and careful
Ripping dashing gashing
With a Coke can edge.
The only real thing
You can feel,
Just about the only thing that gets through anymore.
Somehow the line along metaphor and reality
Seems to balance on a razor blade
So nicely,
Like scalpels and switch blades,
Not the conjunction of pain and pleasure,
But of suspicion and proof--
It’s all the same,
Just a new way of doing it.
So maybe you suffer too,
But at least I
can see mine.

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