The Stylization of Self

the burnished steel of our bed,
as metallic glow pours from the picture-box
and rearranges us in formalized poses,
reflecting graphs of chromium-coated skin
backlit in diagrams of thermonuclear weapons
that flash in blurred ellipses
over sections of our bodies,

The curve of an exposed breast
The soft cushion of a buttock
The arch of a damp perineum

reminders of fresh sensual quarries:

You clasping my breasts to a single globe
the moisture on your lips as you descend
and engulf my stiff nipples,
distracting me from these out-of-character acts.
Your body framed within the contours of my own,
flashing hundreds of perspectives
of flickering mouths, necklines, navels, tongues.

You encage yourself in the fork of my thighs,
break codes hidden in my musculature.
My hands memorize the geometry of your penis
and enclose its radius within my vulva,
drowning our sexuality in the light
of soft-drink commercials multiplied across
the glistening surface of my rising and falling buttocks.

'The Cold War is over'
announces the man in television

(but we know better)

Our semi-metallic body parts interact in new junctions.
You slap me, try to force your flaccid penis into my vagina,
middle finger looking for my anus along the parabola of my cleft,
your empty face clicks on and off in masks of anger and distress.
Your semen runs down my left thigh onto the pool
of sweat and synthesized intimacy soaking the silk sheets below.
Your head swings in my direction, as if remembering,
but you are silent:
it doesn't really matter for people like you.

For people like us

Our space is minimalist,
anonymous and functionalist to the core,
a colourless
frozen reminder of texture,
and torn pages of countless novels
line the wall over our bed,
a chill sterility of words,
a chill sterility of us.