“How many licks” – Lil Kim
I need a new word. The ancient mothers had tongue,
but I’ve lost how to read. The Chinese call it, “Tian yin.”
The Greeks, “Aidoioleixia.” The Welsh, “Gweinlyfu.”
The Tamil, “Vay neṟikkoṇam.” The Nepali,
“Yoni mukhamaithuna.” But for the rest of the world
it is simply “Cunnilingus,” or “Kunilengus,” or
“Cunnilingio.” It sounds like a medical term. The fruit from
the Tree of Diana would never taste like how that word sounds.
The Mystery is there, on the tip of our tongues, I can
almost hear the proper words, like trying to decipher
the chaos as the Goddess of the Hunt brings down the old boar;
at the climax we all make noise that sounds like sacrament.
“… how summer learns to end.” – etherlighter
Mother Lilith, progenitor, what breeds
deeper disquiet in the human heart
than this celibacy that only bleeds
the soul of ecstasy, sets us apart
from the Divine? Debauchery, speaking
in tongues, music: they hold truths and secrets
that the piety of silence, lacking
epiphany, can’t find. When you say, “sluts
and whores,” you speak of prophets. We all die,
Lilith, but not all of us have to numb
our souls first. First Mother, First Wife;
let the world burn, even Augustine’s lie.
Orgasm: it’s the closest that we’ll come
to the Divine in this short, little life.
grow up, there is
more to riding off
on a foamy white
horse, a jism of
release, never to
return, the patriarch
will fall for he is
in Rome hidden
from view rests
Saint Hripsime’s chemise,
made of sackcloth,
which rubbed her
right there when
she walked, for even
martyrs are full
of desire, much
like in Boccaccio’s
the first story of the
third day when Masetto
becomes a gardener,
who “tills the soil
and makes barren
plots fertile,” discreet
easing of the pangs of
lust among the bold
sisters and abbess
and though Hripsime
was a virgin Pier
Paolo Pasolini showed
us how Christ treats
those who put horns
on his crown, they are
children of heaven.
[submitted by ghostsista]
The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenched
under your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenched
little patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. You
peel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrew
twist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floor
of your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.
Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.
Full of the mystery of taste.
Reckless with my mouth.
fresh. My mouth
on your skin. A light kiss
with the touch
of the tongue.
fruit; with a grip,
howling, and hair
Plena do gosto da mistério.
Afoita com minha boca.
Latejando de fruta
fresca. Minha boca
na teu pele. Um leve beijo
com o toque
fruto; com um aperto,
um urro, e puxão
de cabelo. Fruto