The Waterhole

2012 David Jasmin-Green

Lead me to the waterhole,
because I need to drink deeply
of your electrocuting love.
I could murder a risky love like yours;
I need a jolt from your electrodes,
I ache for a vivifying shock as much as a soft caress
and I crave a love that's thoroughly unpredictable.
Sometimes your love is like a stormy ocean,
sometimes it's a gushing waterfall,
sometimes just a girlish, giggling stream.
And sometimes it's a desert, a dead, dry gulch circled by vultures
and scattered with the skeletal remains of your former conquests -
but right now nothing else will do.

Vagrant, wasted, erect and glad
and utterly insane for a while
we play blind man's bluff.
I, of course, play the sightless gimp,
the Sphinx of Gaza drunkenly speaking in riddles,
a deadly but rather stupid buthid scorpion
injecting poison into its own carapace
and bumping into random obstacles.
And you, the scorpion killer,
call all the shots, you think.....

Lead me to the water hole, m'bitch,
'cos I want to sting you,
I need to feed upon your meaty totality,
I need to gorge on your blissful viscera and tell my own fortune
with your incomparably lovely innards.
Disgusted? But I've only just started this reverie, my love.
I have to peer through your eye sockets to see things your way,
I'm planning to devour your sometimes bitter heart,
suck out your brains through your nostrils
and swallow whole your incalculably vast carnal knowledge.

Unsatisfied, as usual
I slake my wrath upon vacuous nothings,
dastardly, detrimental, deadly, even
I rip without thought, without mercy
into the uncharted territory behind your eyes.
What am I? I am a mad dog, a hyena,
I'm a runaway train, a destroying angel,
and I take full advantage
of your fleshy, sweaty, slightly frightened heat.

Only victory counts for now, Twisty.
You are perchance the sweet nobody,
the nameless victim of my predatory dreams;
sometimes that's the only way I can slake my lust
without suffering indeterminable guilt.
Authoritatively, I think,
I reflect your rage, a rage that you deny wholeheartedly,
a rage in which you care for no one, nothing, you say.
Fiddlesticks, woman.
Lead me to the waterhole, my sweet,
and do it right now
because my blood sugar is running dangerously low
and I need an urgent top-up.

We are two of a kind, I often muse.
Doors slam and wounding words are flung like daggers,
but relative to all, sometimes I'm fool enough to believe
that what we have is good.
Inane aliens, we traverse empty space,
a space with limitless room for expansion
but an immovable taboo upon the ownership of real estate.
It's a place where love and hatred exist on equal terms,
but love is undeniably the most distant star.
Where is your dripping hole at times like that, corpse woman?
Where are you when I'm dying of thirst?

But like I said, things constantly change. One minute teeth clash
and insults are flung around in an eclectic heat,
your cold claws hollow my rabid skull
as we contemplate unrequited trivialities,
but in the next instant your fingers wander playfully
and your intrepid lips explore my rampant cock
as I finger your moist, impossibly fragrant folds.
Musk, musk, fuck-musk, aah!
Drown me in your nourishing juices, my love,
lead me to the waterhole right now,
or I'll very probably die.

I call you a bitch, you call me a bastard, and then
we savour our trite sorries and make up one more time.
Right.
“Make the most of it, shit face,” a little voice says in my head,
and predictably it sounds very much like you,
“because tomorrow my insatiable cunny might grow teeth.
Go down to the waterhole if you must, you miserable mutt,
I can't say I bloody well care.
If I were you I'd drink deeply, lover boy,
because you don't know how much longer
you'll possess lips to sip and sup with and a tongue
with which to lap up my undeniable majesty.”