Prelude To A Kneeling

I'm in more dire need of a blowjob
than any white male in
this room,
and there’s only you and me here, and you're
an olive hued woman, with a splash of zulu
on your mother's side, so go figure.

Desperation comes in many shapes and forms,
but this ain't one of them,
just a lingering stir in loins not ready
for hyperboles, barely ready to do anything at all
at the moment.

But as long as you twirl your fingers like that
through hair I just might level you deeper with,
guide you to mount your lips just so incredibly there
and knot those braids almost obscenely
around my ass, there's a chance
you could ignite my apathy
and have a shot at swallowing this
meandering ego.

You know you want to,
you know you want to,
there's no appetite you'd deny yourself
at the edge of wits, and there's no appraisal
I'd deny you at this hour,

although I‘m stuck in the same sleaze bog as always,
knee deep in apathy, and breathing
nothing but third-hand air and the scent
of your paradise.

Such a paradox can compress
wasted hours into diamonds
that I’d hang in silver around your ankles
and lick my way up.

You know you want it,
you know you really want that,
I can hear you project a futile Jedi mind trick
for release, and remember,
I'm in no more dire need
than the fucking remote today,
it's you that are aching
to lose control.