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In the Season of Slosh, dank and swampy,

in Thrimilce, the Month of Three Milkings,

 

when all that drips and rains and bleeds in me,

each spurt and geyser, will be offerings.

 

Nothing is as bewitching; a horned god

in the spring heat, long and lovely and lush.

 

Green heat: I want to impale you, ramrod

you in sacrifice to the forest. Gush,

 

as sap gushes, down your garlands. Cock-slap

your blithe face, stretching jaw, your bulging throat.

 

In juice is joy, they say. In cum wisdom.

Bless the sacred; be it spit, seed or sap.

 

Bless the damp earth. Bless lovers that devote

themselves daily to wisdom and to cum.

][][

Note: “Thrimilce,” is the Anglo-Saxon term for the month of May, when the animals of the earth are so fertile that the ewes can be milked three times a day.