Pestilent Flesh

I thought this to be a pretty cunning and cryptic write on a certain aspect of things.

 These wet chains
like liquid flesh
wrap and consume
as we beg.

 Though sly grins
we proceed daftly
to be tenderized
by mental stigma.

 Like pestilent riders
you march freely
with smells erotic
pinning our weakness.

 Painting our worlds
so we dream
like melted clocks
on fine canvas.

Author's Note

I would like to see what you think this is about, open to criticism.