the gods speak in tongues
orgasm their lost language
come, let us translate
I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes
I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies
I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I
have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy
us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,
love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,
knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?
Remembering that night makes desire
shake once again. I play it over in
my mind — the thrill of memory sets fire
to my nerves — I’m on the edge of my skin
aching to be set free with your mouth, hand,
tongue all that makes me feel that we did this
before, we’ll do this again. I expand
down your throat. When you part your grave-fresh thighs
I kiss all that I can find. Science still
can’t teach us if orgasms aren’t or are
human sublimity that we call faith.
I know that you came through the door to kill
me, I know that I love you: thief, bizarre
ghost girl, libido, love, barrow wraith.
Strange. There’s a small army of us who give
blowjobs to strangers. Like Sucka MCs
or a ten year old with a homemade shiv,
you can’t tell just by looking as we breeze
by you on the street, in your office, out
on the playground. All our worlds are complex,
and so are we. Maybe on a stakeout
at a gloryhole, bathrooms and blind sex,
then you’ll tell—-when you hit a contralto,
like in movies—-each time you orgasm.
A tad crude, but to the point. Then you’ll tell
who is who. All us boys and girls who know
your taste and laugh at you because you cum
and call yourself an erotic rebel.
Who made this big O? Who milked all this cream
then got off? Which shaman brought the secret
of the orgasm back? Who brought the dream
of how to speak to the gods home? Read smut,
those hoarse orgasmic screams make this worship
look like child’s play. But I’ve been down on you
all night and you’ve yet to fling yourself back-
forth in the tall duffled grass. Sure, I knew
that not all prayers are heard. Between loadstones
and ghost loads both point to something beyond
grasp, but only one causes you to touch
the true divine. After gushing cum moans,
return and tell me, sister vagabond,
about what you once laughed off as nonsense.
Besos en los labios, y tus dedos del pie contracción nerviosa.
Besos en tu clítoris, pezones se endurecen.
Mi dedo en tu culo, escalofríos por el alma.
Sino que cuando dices mi nombre, eso es el ruiseñor que en la selva cantando.
Kiss on the lips, and your toes twitch.
Kiss your clitoris, and your nipples harden.
My finger in your ass chills the soul.
But when you say my name, it is a nightingale singing in the jungle.
Համբուրում է շուրթերին, եւ ձեր ոտք ունեցող մարդ ջղաձգություն.
Համբույր ձեր կլիտօրիս, եւ ձեր խուլ կարծրացնում.
Իմ մատը ձեր էշի, սարսուռ հոգու.
Բայց երբ դուք ասում եք, իմ անունը, դա է սոխակ երգում է ջունգլիներում.
“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman
I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.