His warm, light basement is home to energy;
a place for all kinds of magick.
Magick for love and lust,
of sensitivity and pain to take place.
With cords, rope, and the perspiring nakedness
of our flesh, together we make magick.
We tie knots, weave gentle sigils on bellies and goosebumped
chests; we heave love
like boxes and like delicate vases;
together we burrow: digging into holes with sharp,
solid shovels, and at other times with caressing fingertips,
flicking tongues, and soft
thrusts with the spade.
Always, cool lips meet and we suffocate
from bruising pressure.
We chant spells with our sighs and moans of
numbing pleasure–but our spells are never old.
Together we dance and perform ritual–for magick we yearn.