Sate This, Not That Poem by Patrick VincentBrown

Wrap your arms around and crown my head
As a memory might with the self, sought deep,
For thoughts felt near, like the precious bed
That, unlike love, lies here within our reach.

Take your arms from my head and grasp,
With hands, this nubile neck that feigns submit,
Like a ladies nape to a gaudy clasp,
And hang on me that bejeweled kiss.

Bracelet my wrists and fling me on the bed
And then, with fast flicks of the tongue in swirls,
Sing your song on felt flesh from hoof to head
And adorn with spit and sweat in beads of pearls.

Do all of this on passions wing and do it well.
Fly the pair of us to the carnal spot
Then come to where the center holds in a swell.
Then release lust's grip, come down, then stop.

But now you ask to touch this mean thing down deep?
Now you seek to penetrate with eyes that care?
Believe that all that is found inward will be cheap
So I ask you, kindly, do not to touch me there.

God! Fight this desire for treasure inside!
There is where the man is spare and plain, alone!
A meandering map of love as your guide
Will find a shineless thing, and unadorned!

So this, my love, is the predicament we're in;
That you look for riches that are not there.
The best, my love, would be to stick to skin
And leave all else dull, austere, and deathly bare.