Satan's Beard

The evil thing about your face
must be that beard tickling my ear,

mouthing indecencies. Must you
be such a brutal man, whisper

all of your fantasies to me?
Your lightest word contains a Hell:
a feather to my testicles—
grit inside an oyster shell;

each follicle’s a little fork
in my behind—if you’ll forgive
so obvious a metaphor
for love. What can I do? I live

in such a state of horrible
anxiety that you might shave,
I’ve stopped shaving myself and I 
have hidden all the razors—save

one: this one I keep hidden
inside my tongue. Now, how shall I
reward you for those little forks?
Shall I recite some poetry

or fuck your face ridiculous?