Cut Open

I need a shot of the lipid,
some bursting of giddiness in my brain.
I need a soothing shock,
to disfigure all the noise.
I need you,
and your flame.
I need your charming compass,
pointing me to the directionless,
directionless hours, through the feet of turmoiled, turn-stiled, passing time.
An incidental clock, pockmarked and walking free inside,
the doors and rooms of my black and white shadowed eye.
Little cursive bent of corporeal mutiny,
little pieces of child-like aim.
Tender, gentle hands with veins,
crisscrossing the raised flesh.
Tender stomach made of warmth and suede,
under a cheek of mine.
Lips like meaningful sockets of truth and stale breath,
courting a lava tongue and specks of lust on the corners of the mouth.
Hauling me deeper,
deeper into the corkscrew vortex of,
spinning hands and hair,
talking guiltily of love,
and
not much else.
Give me your flame.
I need your charming compass.
I will be alive tomorrow,
and
cut
open,
tonight.