spread the word between your
your legs, I will spell it myself,
if I cannot, then why do I have
a tongue? this world is a cathedral
of sinners, peopled with gospels,
you are one, I am another, descending
from apostles of sex, my grandfather
was diagnosed with eggplant-syndrome
by his nurse-mistress, she rather
chose to nurse this excess at her river
of hormones, she bathes him & became
his fifth wife— god said four at most—
if you can love them to their needs,
but for the wonders that god does
in the groins of man, sainthood is flawed,
it is everywhere, it has always
been since there was light in the voice of god.
god made you in his image,
I am beginning to doubt if he is a man even.
what do I even know, that I have not seen?
this faith is a risk, like the love
I pour on you like a can,
if the way I love you is how I love god,
then how come I never would
crave his own phallus like you crave mine?
see, it is all in our heads—
as you have made a woman
out of god in my palms, feeling
the texture of your omnipresence,
this temple makes my body an instrument
of yoga, I am finding peace, I am
deriving the meaning of supremacy
over things that will not stand the test of time,
unlike my libido for you,
your eyelashes moan into my ears,
I can hear you when you are numb,
this is how far I have been lost in my
quantum soul, in my cell, I am a prisoner
already, but I feel free in this small room,
I now dread anything out of this door
you lock me in, because sundays
are for everything worship & rest has
to give the muscles & joints,
& you come with them, handy,
I have them all in a mouthful, your
serum energizes me with pride.
you might say I am making a man
out of god in your cookie jar too,
your noise is the key to his ears,
the music entertaining me on a weekend.
I am omnipotent. I am making big things
happen with your presence.
neighbors want to witness this grace,
we make their ears drum to our tones.

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let us freshen up

this white towel unfolding your skin,
your bum like the arc of a setting sun,
skin caramel, honey, I know you want me
to see as it drops slowly, this shower is waiting
for what is there to wash, drizzling
from the tiny holes of a punched plate,
you are going to deliver me
from this quiet storm in my head, animal tongue,
my watering mouth from the spell
of your tout nipples, your deep kiss,
sweet smell, your tongue in my ears,
your cum keeps dripping to join my mouth
in this madness, I whet the appetite
of your labia, your inner thighs beat
with the rhythm of your heart, you become
an earthquake, shaking off your consciousness,
soaked, I am hitting your ass,
in the blurred sight of the glass door
& the nosiness of light, the smell of petals,
waxes & soft winds, setting our sheets
for the warmth of cotton, the choreography
of coitus is an art of love, coated in the cud
of lust, the echoes of dirty talk, moans
& screams of passion, this is our love language,
this is the way we make up if we seem
to be falling apart like clouds in the rain,
this is me shedding my guilt, this is you
shedding your innocence, this is our sins
being washed away in the shower.

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by Tukur Loba Ridwan 

Categories: Poetry

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