by March 2, 2010 0 comments

There can be only one first time
(though there have been many)-
after subjecting ourselves to the mandatory hours of lust,
once, only once,
after observing the introductions
& enduring the formalities of beasts,
will our bellies be filled with this certain excitement:
a thrill that dapples our sexes
with the beginnings of rain,
binds us with wonder & mystery & origin,
every sense trembling with vision,
raving, erupting,
then taming into the first sucking of lips,
the first nibbling of necks,
the first pawing of breasts.
the first goosebumps on the arms and spine.
Only once will we forgive like this,
with an erogenous pull
that annihilates all the flaws of our endlessly decomposing
bowels, that divulges all secret intentions and morphs
the sterility of guilt imposed upon us
into the vulgar and magnanimous thrall
of exquisite knowing and flesh-hood.
Only once will the stringencies fall like this
as we pummel each other
and caress ourselves, burning flowers with our gasps
& smoldering cloth with our flooding contortions,
the earth-supple gyrations of our dance,
the electricity that pierces the ribs,
forming iron darkness to our pelvises
& entangling the seams of our eyes with silver-thorned vines
nubile, mildewed from the elemental heaving shade &
dampness of our groins,
we uncreate shape at it’s birth
to reforge the ancestral angles in mute, teeming, crushing thrusts,
we try to obliterate the other into us,
for we’ve forgotten what is impossible

then everything is still.

Warm frost spreads through you like liquified butter in spasms
soft orange light flickers running through your finger tips
your thoughts melt like mercury then
it’s over,
& once again you’ve failed.

There are no second chances.
You’ve seen her belly like rotten wood
& her unmatched breasts
& she’s seen the boils on your back
& knows you can’t cum.
Now you both must flee to the rites of other first times
or engage in the ritual of love.

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