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I went to their church just once; to see how

their side lives. There will always be good girls


sitting with their parents thinking eyebrow

searing thoughts. Those who leave their bawdy curls


unfurled all morning bore me. It’s the kink

outside their temples and mosques, all those cast


out, that I call blood. Cousins. Eat me, drink

me, love me; come, make much of me. We’re vast


in our lusts. We own this. We’re not ashamed.

We don’t turn pale each time a strange tongue slips


in our ear. Let them fear us. Each crusade

of theirs has failed. Cousins, come. We’re named


this ours. We prophets of cocks, clits and lips.

Come home with me, blood. We’re all getting laid.