Mons Veneris

Flightless as a songbird who does not live
according to the proverb, who
refuses to sing what others have said
for him in their deaf languages
only the dead can bear to hear, tongue stuck

into you like a pin, a man
like a talisman to whom I give some
incredible head in order
to transform you into a glyph, no such
symbol before has said so much

          more than I will have, man, by the time I

finish this, initiating
your flesh with an adept-degenerate
expert as the next pervert in
what sort of smut shames even your thoughts’ most
sordid fantasies to blushing

dread, such that the blood runs backwards to fill-
up on again that thick crimson
solar I can never give-up with which
it rushes to return to that
part of you my exertions bend, plump lips

          pumping, stiffening what my mouth

sends into palpitations when you let
it explore & conquer every
inch, haunting the night-houses has taught me
to lick, lick, lick like the back of
a stamp that envelope dick of yours I

know likes the back of my hand that
I am going to push in, in, in so
hard until my words drive home just
how transcendent transgression is for some,
especially we who seek it

          by the dram, downing while we guzzle it,

each other’s flavour & sound, pounding
back in concert what this talent of ours
draws from these swollen wells, ink and
crowds who want to read in silence what no
one dare thinks is allowed, yet the

Norsemen from whom I descend taught me to
die resisting, but they never
thought that what I would be fighting against
is this temptation, that their son
would be a bard whose skaldic mead is come.