The Great Masturbator

raise the grasshoppers legs

to your lips

taste the glory

as you shed your form for pleasure,

that amorphous self,

twisting into something almost impossible

to recognize.

something formed of pale flesh

but not quite human,

ascending, flesh rippling

under the soft touch of her ghostly lips,

balancing fears

like rocks upon the skull

distant

for a moment,

sweet relief

found only in images of her

face stretched towards your legs

mere seconds away from

release.

but there are

cracks in this facade.

ants along the grasshopper

feeding

crawling

twisting at the seams

a face within the folds

of your cheeks,

laughing

leering

and from your neck

the roots of rot spread.

you can only have a temporary relief

before the distortion claims you.

golden hair sweeping the space between

your thighs

until it returns

to the rag you had before.

lips return to fingers

and fantasy dies,

reality returns,

a constant battle between

the eternal now

and

the persistence

of memory.