Ludwig

You can expect trills and riffs
of thrilling turns and swerves,
designed to defy expectation.
My melodyelectricity glorifies you.

You can expect staccato thrusts
and pizzicato pulls and pushes.
Everything and anything to keep
you toesy, lipsy, and coyly kissing.

You can expect the gentle swallows
of coos and hand, caresses stressed
by fists gripped in layered embraces.
And you can bite that trumpet finger.

You can expect a multitude of movements,
distinguished by their tactile timbre:
The drones of a cello massage starkly juxtaposed
with the clave clickclack of ass-slaps.

The baritone grunt of an asserted dominance
harmonized with the soprano yelps and oohs
of willful helplessness. And the timpani beats
to the curves of a skin spread open,

while horns are tickled to cries of yes triumphant,
voices blown piquant through brass to crescendo
crescendocrescendoyeswavethosehandsandclosethoseeyes
Crescendo!

Ay, there's the rub. And the piano strokes
to follow for a pianissimo pillow impenetrable
by sadnesses. Our ecstasies and smiles abound.
Our notes and strokes passionate and fallen.

We made music. And goddamn,
___it was quite the symphony.
Let us bow and stride into
soundless fits laying now.