Valentine’s mother stood bent over
a coca cola cocktail, her breasts cupped
and pulled down with each of her crimson
lacker nails, sharp draggings left red
marks of fire ants’ prints, she kneaded her mead.
After the glass was drained, my throat
scorched with the charred powdered milk,
and I could feel love’s cruel crisis blossom,
mater valetina, as if the Mistress of Darkness
stood before me, tossed my black hair,
and blown shivers of acrid kisses down
my chest and to the root of my cock,
her hungry mouth searching to fill
and flounder in the ravages of her spell.
I spent not but 10 seconds in ecstasy
-or so it seemed- as I woke drained
with resplendent white, white as dawn,
next to me. The bed sheets smelled
of awful scent, two couplings of thirst
to drain and succle the drained, all medics
wear red, all bandages wear white, and all
new loves of spring wear buttoned blue jeans.