Warthogs

[Kerbonzo_beenz]

Slow moving digits 
caressing plump skin
Lurid film
Strobes within.

Shadows flail over the headboard,
gleeful embers burn in their sockets.
All the while
Something dangerous in his pockets.

Pinpricks of cold sweat quell
by heated hands.
The act is a demand
no one understands.

Ears succumb to sound,
tongues wind around,
Lost and never found;
Two warthogs in their cage
squeeling wretchedly.

[busker]

I can half guess at what is being depicted here, but the payoff of the two end lines doesn’t compensate for the obscurity of the rest of the poem IMO
It’s “squealing”.

[Kerbonzo_beenz]

Would it be a good idea to rewrite it a little and change the title?