Cunnilungus

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: