Desecration

Desecration

Making love to women
how you desecrate their essence.

This the eye of the mind cannot see.
The eye of memory is blinkered by
formless thighs swimming in sea-lined roads.

And how these folds, pink and velvety,
pale and sometimes liverish,
flap their eons through the irises
of this cruel memory.

Dumb memory,
whose tongue has been singed by
the acridity of sweatcreases.

The mind's eye cannot travel
beyond these moments
and memory, cruel as lipless laughter,
creeps away amputated.