the poem or the poet?

i fell into
my favorite beat
to hide there
for the afternoon.
i lust for this artist
whose beauty is
deeper than his flesh.
his strength stronger
than any of my muscles.
he prepares me
for a holiday feast
of obscurity and light.
i swallow his rhymes
so i’m no longer hungry
and my thirst disappears.
his twisted delight
exposes my affection
in each blasphemous jingle.
a hymn of the wild
on every page,
i sing it to myself
as a byzantine ballad.
i am born in time
to be amused this way.
before the curse
of forgiveness
as an act of kindness.
for this one occurrence
i am happy to exist.
i will let the poet
have his way with me.
he enslaves me
in his argument.
i concede
to his proposition
for fornication.
his words, not mine.

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