the turbines turn,
the silhouettes palpitate,
the hedges soak in nectar,
the clemency fades
and tides of delectation
singularly personify the forgetfulness of
what it is to stop
and what it is to breathe,
until the forced cyclonic suction
gustates the crecsendo
of the flicked bean
where the sidewalks end:
...
neither a fancy word
nor a fancy act,
but so much flow in both:
i say,
fuck the chagrien
that chivalrous civility
of the charlatan cosmopolite
consolidates around the cynosure
chiarascure of cunnilungus,
for,
the cynic who mocks at it the most
is probably that celibate
who constegates his own
lack of admiration through chauvinism
for the chimerical concept
that is cunnilungus;
neither the Ramban
nor SulchanAruch
could dissuade Talmud Bavli
from preaching against the
kohanic disqualifications
in the Halakha regarding cunnilungus,
and the Shakti Peetha of Kamakhya
where Ambuwasi blossoms
only adds to Kamadeva's emboldened light
professing the age of cunnilungus:
cunnilungus is the art
of the superior man
(
or of the superior woman
depending on her fancy
for tribadism
)
it is his mark of dominance,
it is his inner masculine
playing on the harmonics of diligent grace,
it is his resolved intent to punish
the ghosts of over-contained dams,
the embolus of over-flowing oestrogen,
the dementors of caged widow Winship's clitoris,
it is the barbarian's
understanding of reciprocity,
it is where the cannibal
practises his restraint,
it is where Hannibal Lectre
pauses before his massacre,
it was the cause of
Ahalya's husband's curse on Indra,
it was why Kapo of Hawaii
kept her yoni detachable
so that the half-man half-pig Pele
wouldn't sniff on it,
it is where subtlety takes a back seat
and lingering forces of attraction
mount on their high horses
to claim the metaphorical heaven's gate:
...
and as for yours truly here,
he has a knack for playing downstairs
which he has always taught himself to do,
he cares not whether they be
israeli or columbian in their shape,
italian or indian in their moist,
dark or light in their tone,
hedges or no hedges in their surround,
when he turns his compass south,
Saturn and Venus stare in awe,
Anna Nicole Smith's spirit
seams to descend on his pulchritude,
Eros and Aphrodite remember their younger days,
and the bed sheets arrange loud disheartened protests
against being pulled and clutched,
only to be content with
the wash they get the morning after:
...
so,
fellow testosterone packed units,
it is the man in you
that defines how it is that
the woman in her will bloom;
always let her come to you,
but when she does,
always head south: