the slow throb of night

the slow throb of night wearies the humble blood
by innocent repetition, the disciplinary eroticism
latent in the naked vein, and each drop of sex that falls
dead from the exotic flesh we have forgotten,

wee wee and ignorant orgasms and heaven's arrogant
nexus there, dirty water and decadent pleasures
and nothing forever. we are dead then
and do not care, eternities so elsewhere

by David McLean