In Her Bed, One Night

She started to doze

while I

stared out

into the sky, then

we rolled

towards one another,

teeth fluttered over

by tongues.

Maw produced lubrication

commingled:

her nicotine saliva,

my cannabinoid

cotton mouth.

Hairy palmed

hands,

lecherous

tarantulas,

whose digits

blasted and banged

as their comrade,

the tongue, trickled

over

tobacco fume pussy.

Our new spit progeny

birthed

the caked tar

of an alluring

sludge sundae, a flesh flood

warning, lungs filled

with smoke

and slathered cunt honey that

screamed

lusty,

gutturally

symphonic motifs

triumphantly

trumpeted.

And yet thru the window, you could

hear R&B, faintly

in the distance,

low and distorted.

Some nondescript

FM diva

vocalized the melodious

crackle of a gentrified

genre bred for homogeny,

but it was barely heard

over

our din.