“Did you bring your surgical knife?”, she asks as we strip down to flesh and begin the love ritual. “I like the way you run it across my chest circling my nipple, skin arresting but not breaking. “I desperately wish that you would slightly pierce, striking at the trickling flow that streams and pools in my navel.” Have a taste and save some for me, lap up the blood with your tongue, swallowing, transfer the rest to my mouth, making sweet union complete. Graphic design and interpretation of poem, by Grant Bateman, New Zealand. Poem by Frank Payton.
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Poet...Prophet....Philosopher.... one foot in this world the other one in the next... View all posts by flyraventhepoet