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.