My love’s at a delicate frequency
pulsing between lust and envy, seven
inches of raw vinyl emotion with
no gossamer/featherlite protection.
I listen to the foetal position
umbilically connecting with her
as she hits that top note twice in one bar.
My lover is a twelve digit number
a foreign tongue. Only I can fathom
its syncopated rhythm, postmodern
ménage à trois, she, me, BT. This is
the oral sexual revolution. Love
French kissing at 69 bpm.
The last dance in cheap yellow light. Over
and out. I couldn’t hear my heart beat, break.
Too much interference, too much distance.