Poor Orphans Abandoned in the Forest of the Universe

Pearl-drenched essence of World’s Soul almonds its ways through his oasis thighs, orcharding their thickness with fur-fisted precision, weeping milk into damask carpet bridging his sighs; in the thinnest ru(i)n of conundrum, my love summons him and suffers nothing as it floods minutes of ours with pleasure pumped up from a bottomless well we tap from down within.
          Ahmad, how he wants to fire-flick farther into each other, demanding as I dive into the oyster-opened ease of the crevice he leverages with all the tumult of the Levant to open just for me. After hours, I plow and pilfer all perfumed inference without interfering, intimating that he is my treasured faïence, a shattering vase placed with nubile haste, in the palpitating palm of my impurest (he)art.
          Apart, we break for a fortnight, until again we consume our birthrights’ bloom, and eat out of sweating palms, the ripest fruit of indolence; every caress a contract, every kiss a granted wish, burdening us with impermanent sentiment, and by magic’s fleeting performance, we are satisfied by this.
          Ahmad, he sees no consequence as he spends his youthful bliss on a traveler concerned less with innocence, and more with conquest. Exiled in a March abroad, I awed, I laid, I dishonoured privilege, taking my whitest pilgrimage into the Orient at noon, trading blush anguish for its exasperating dusk; in its darkest dance I met and mutilated its guests, as I overthrew my host and devoured his youngest son. A setting immobilized by our mutual misfortune of falling caution-hurled first into, and then for, each other, nursing our wounds on succulent gourds tasting of other wor(l)ds.
          Ahmad and I pearled our swine desires in a derelict pool we found emptied of flowing gush. We filled it, and our Selves, with steaming dew, and as we swam its open corridors, we knew that what we ran was a course in miracles mortal men call lust, but that, which in our souls—and that of the world, which steers us all—we secretly named love.
          Ahmad, as if philosophy purged itself of desert dryness and bathed him in nudest, truest knowledge, purified his pagan tongue, and salted his bland, adolescent thoughts with flavours of language. Though we spoke not the same, we silently overcame the dangers of mistrust and defiantly, we spoke in licks, fingerings, sucks, thrusts, and fucks, lingering inside each other’s a(by)sses until daybreak, taking up mouthfuls of love; poor orphans abandoned in the forest of the universe.