bukkake, erotic poetry, orgasmic grace, poem, Poetry, saint's climax, sonnet, thick thighs save lives, what the gods adore
In old sex comedies, orgasmic cries
were changed into operatic high notes.
That wet ¡shlick!-roar you make between your thighs
would have caused a panic. For them, “Deep Throat,”
was a code name and, “Pink Eye,” a virus.
This is sacred: your blood shot eyes, lashes
gummy with my cum, your sweaty, “thickness,”
cleansed in the bath. Others cling to stigmas
and fears about sex. Since we’re divas who
can’t sing, we choose the real thing. No censors
or sound effects; just, “O! Cum on my face.”
The Gods adore such mettle. We, who spew
prayers in their praise, like all feral lovers,
each time the Gods bestow orgasmic grace.