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Pleasure is full of invisible things
that you feel but just dimly know. Darkness —

split in half, shaman-child, by climax — brings
visions; hawk of Venus, fox of Eros.

To ripe. To rot. Cum’s bloom. We both follow
sparks that all these fingers, cocks and cunts give.

Sessing insights in that moment of glow.
Call it depraved but what god won’t forgive

naughty when it feels good? Don’t try to sess
all those who love the husks but not the fruits.

Those who stop praying when the spirit’s sky
fills them even for a second. We bless

the hip’s bliss; not old trees but their deep roots;
not the zealot’s cry but our cum-deep sigh.