Hot flinch

Hot flinch, the very glimpse of you makes me itch.
Some species of irresistable bitch.
How you´ve cooked and peeled these pieces of yearning.
Images of your flesh partly covered by ferns.
You must have smiled as you took them out to thaw, and drenched them in honey.
I´d like to see you bathe on verander inviting and sunny.
Shameless and purposeful i´d have found you.
You´d gaze sweetly as I´d drown.
You´d gaze sweetly fresh as fucking spring.
To you it wouldn´t mean a thing.
And you turn the fantasy like a wheel in our heads, those tubes in our hearts expand and contract.
Turning our insides into kitchens with negligent chefs.
Planning the passion, the promise and the moment to leave us bereft.
As wicked and wild eyed as a tiger cub learning to kill.
Teasing the shit out of us from a window sill.
Hot flinch the very glimpse of you makes me itch.
If it wasn´t such a treat for my eyes, if it wasn´t such an urge that struggles beneath the surface.
Yet you seem cold, dry and only satisfied when i´m nervous.