Docking Window
You have many names
and a weather of faces
changing under my labor
Your body
is the closest approach
Your openings
tunnels for vertigo arrivals,
mineshafts for tongues and thumbs
and the blood-driven pistons
of exploratory speleology
Genitals standing guard
like meerkats
or startled bitterns
Your body
a reception ritual without lace:
avant-garde physics under the moon
Straight into the root-flood
A docking port fit
for an orbital station
Panting prime position:
doggy or missionary, equally wet,
smacking contentedly in prosperity,
sweat glazing the conditions
of the act of love
Consent documents filed,
witnessed and pinned
along the walls.
Blonde On Blonde repeating
while purely Icelandic
geyser-ejaculations
groan the century
with extended docking windows
Not even the riders
of the apocalypse
ride harder
You are a tornado in the solar plexus.
The lower back sings
You thunder.
You rain
Your faces flicker in lightning
from the irresistible jihad
of the loins
Your body
is the closest approach.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-09 at 10:34
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