at your beckon



i am a drone in a beeline

knowing how to get

to your pleasure

with memory & finesse



sliding through outer space

inside your sputnik sattelite



i’m your factotum

albeit a very satisfied factotum



i crumble with excitement

knowing the past pleasure

floating on the tip

of your tongue



i am in an erie

sense of abandon

there is passion and there

is subjective titillation



both from knowing

what you will do

and how well

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