Don't speak about Dying

[Stalker]

An old woman in PVC
hot pants,
I lay waiting,
shackled to the bed head
by disease.

All the beds, pillows and faces,
the pricks, schlongs and
mthondos, the ceilings, twisted gasps
and a single droplet
of
lunchtime sweat,
parade through the room.

How do you want me?
I bite my lip, coquette,
blood in our first kiss.

All the desires, disappointments,
dutiful, desperate, disparate
moments, at once
penetrate. I miss
the physicist’s fingers.

Take me, Take me now!
Implore, explore.
Release ripens,
heavy, begging for it.

All the questions,
hundreds unanswered,
others I was wrong about,
gyrate.

Pornography for the curious.

He turned me around
my visitor
pulled my head back
grasped my throat,

one last humiliation
for this woman.

There had been many,
so I know how.

I open myself
to oblivion.

[benthejack]

I'm going to have to come back to comment on this. I'm still processing it.

[heslopian]

After a couple of reads it feels like the poem's about an elderly, bedridden woman being molested by a nursing home worker, or maybe she's simply reflecting on former sexual exploits. A lot more clarification is needed. Who, for instance, is "the physicist"? There's a few nice phrases and observations though, like the mention of PVC and the fourth verse, which in its listing of words feels like a life rushing before your eyes. Critique is JMHO. Thank you for the read

[Stalker]

the physicist plays a cameo here - inappropriate and I think he should exit.

it was meant to be about that old entanglement death and sex - seems not to be working...

thanks for your time - I appreciate.