Smut in Process

Yes. This is quite rude. Beware.

Read me something highly erotic
like the words pinned to your blackboard,
like the poems behind the postcards
and the maps that memorise
future encounters.
Read me, please, with all five senses,
the smell and texture of your armpits,
the taste of cherry vaseline
kept on your lips on winter time.
Read me lines about your eyes,
about their eyes, aquatic blue,
maroon, magenta, make up colours,
and the sounds your bodies make
when sweat’s involved.
I just keep looking through your books,
trapped in the contents of a black hole,
human history, a library
of hidden secrets.
I just throw leaflets, tomes,
down to the floor,
expecting you decipher signals
and bring me back to modern times,
world upside down,
like you and I,
and you can read me, please,
and you can write me.