Sometimes it’s simple; the way your nipples
grow hard at the thought of soul-damning sex
with my cock in your throat. Face flushed, nostrils
flared; still you choke. Other times it’s complex.
When I cum on your face gods run amok,
turn odd, lecherous as any bar fly ––
Faith is as messy as this facial-fuck
that left you blinking in bloodshot, pinkeye
surprise. There’s other metaphors but they
don’t please; like in your patriarchal
faith: “the Sons of Heaven begat Daughters
of Man.” If all acts lead to the source pray
with me. There is awe when we both tremble
and cum; like fools, like divine messengers.