I am a quill pen dipped in soul-black pitch. You are my notebook.
I open you and begin to inscribe your pages.
Fuck love. We make poetry.
I kiss memories from your forehead and swallow them whole,
smoothing the lines that housed them. We make each other younger.
Our bodies grind together like clock gears to turn back time
because what we're doing is timeless, ancient and futuristic, holy,
our lips and tongues clasped like hands in prayer,
flesh bitten and held like communion wafers,
your fluids wine to my tongue.
I smell salvation in your sweat.
You taste like autumn, your body exploding
in bursts of fire and gold as my tongue searches your curves,
seeking renewal as I penetrate you in an act of gentle violence,
and each thrust is Excalibur extracted from the stone.
King me.
Let's roll around in the dirt until we make it clean,
transform our spinning bodies into drills
aimed for the heat of the earth's core
just to make it seem cool by comparison.
Let's shave the moon's pussy and go down on her together,
stick our tongues through stars to make them numb
just to feel the pins and needles when we kiss each other
back to life, our lips double stitched with iron twine.
Let me be the lightning that splits your clouds,
your rain pouring out to a standing ovation of thunderclaps.
Let me drown in your flood, my lungs full to bursting
with just a fraction of your beauty.
Let me inhale you.
Let me be Oedipus to your Mother Earth.
I swear I'll be the brightest son.
Nestled in my arms for shelter, you whisper,
"No more metaphors, baby.
"Let's fuck.”
Whenever, Whatever, Wherever by Dan Houston
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Copyright November 2011, Ezra Stead.
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.