A Poet’s Fucking

A Poet’s Fucking

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Fucking a poet
Or more accurately
Using our bodies to direct a symphony
Each kiss placed on your skin is a note
A flick of your cord strummed gently
Coercing the lips that will tell
Your body’s story

Open-
The covers of your book
Let me flip through its juicy pages
Like a Shakespearean sonnet
Tell me, “what sayeth thee”?
I taste the sweetness of your secrets
One by one whisper them all to me
Slowly entering your halls
Pressed by your walls
Your knees
My ear
Are the only things close enough
To hear what your lips reveal.

Siphoning your cup dry
I’ll leave nothing
Not even enough for a wet dream
Carefully strumming your cords
So your body records the tune of this memory
The echoing of percussions
A backdrop to the spreading
Of your knelt passion
In orgasmic submission.

On your lonely days
And cold horny nights
Will come the haunting of this wanting
Like the ghost of Christmas past
This is a poet’s fucking

Song: By Tank “Slow”

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