beauty, boobs, bums…
these youthful lasses…
my broad chest is a sky where they
count stars of sensations at night.
beards. baby face. scents.
shirts. shoes. roses. humour…
like clouds, my muscles bulge
for their soft bodies to hop on—
6 packs, biceps— they ride sky high
on their chariot, of horses that they are.
going all the way higher to reach
beyond the zenith of these heights,
breaking each locks of their own doors
to throng in & out repeatedly by my sweet
candy rush. they keep looking for heavens
of love in this hell of lust—
truth dies inside the mouth of lies
like I love you—
the sweet tooth that women crave.
but I do not care, & they still know
I would not care—
there is a voice in them that reminds them
of the rules of games like this. & we play…
I am serving them breakfast after they
serve me dinner.
switching positions suggest that we give & take
in this selfish pursuit of pleasure. & pain epilogues
after we zip up without each other’s hands’
like we did to unfurl each shy faces on our skins.
by Tukur Loba Ridwan