Frothing the Garden


Born in darkness because no light could bear us, • how much better self-abuse is when it’s with you, • my hushed Muse, my dearest silence, heavenly-bodied beauty touched • by thunder-bolting thrusts of such divine lust as must • have aroused rebel Titans in some rite only a • man has the satisfaction of undertaking and living again • and again, you whose no use for self-control confuses, • frightens, enlivens, yet still, those for whom defining your • own self-worth fills devout minds with godless blinds its • denial lifts, opening finally and wide all eyes heretofore • closed tight to the sight of your lips on • mine, cryptic as I continue to be among those • uninitiated in these mysteries, the clandestine doings, the impassioned • undertakings, of fiends, every storm a sordid kiss, Geb • busting open Nut, all seven of heaven’s crystalline firmaments • cracking into dust mixing with hell’s rusting corridors against • all resistance unicorn-pointed stars and magically-anointed planets, fervid prayers • and fallen angels, collapse into and blemish with bruises • those blushing hearts whose fruit no lovers before ever • could consume, not without needless guilt, what together
our • efforts affront and uplift no others would ever attempt • or risk, not without regret, how shameless, then, this • tryst, after we come, when our ecstatic tremor roars • its best bestial bravado then sunsets, the only constellations • left for dusk to welcome will be those drawn • across the wilderness pelts of our sweating, expansive chests, • pearls of lust strung with satisfaction’s jest, connected by • silk ripped from our secondary, auxiliary hooded heads, cobra • spit at once Vedic and Aryan, pure snow-white and • ancient, unforgiving in its relentless controversy which begets every • heresy ever since a distant beginning begot those deities • who begot us, tangled in the lineage those silver-webbed • strings of genes adorn our spent bodies with as • if we were Christians, or Christmas trees, garlanded in • sin, two initiates offering each religion its due reverence, • borne of our shared prudence in both pursuing formal • scholarship of their origins’, purposes’, and uses’ comparison, in • our diligent honouring of man’s primal needs and urges • which writhe underneath the lies of each, with you • my body blasphemes by articulating in movements and moments • what truths my mouth refuses to speak, better than • gospel how you let your good nudity improve every • crudity and greet me unashamed wherever we meet, whether • under satin roses bristling from gently flowing whispers of • breeze keeping secret what you let me see, or • beside walls of stone witnessing what riotous meals I • make of your flesh, only witnesses to what dark • parts of you my delight it is to eat, • whether going your own groves, by obscene deeds getting • to know intimately that grotto of brunet which leaves • musk languid on my breath, or that tight smile • reclining hidden inside two piles of muscle my tongue • has parted to tickle too many times to count, • •


to dart in and out of before plowing into • its winking depths its throbbing spade to prepare you • for my dagger unsheathed, tasting first how other men • have left hints of their previous visits, droplets of • their mixed essences, to be devoured before I fill • in with my own milk that sacred chalice the • dulled blade of their bitterness at having spilled it • too fast rattles with laughter as each errant knight • after errant night enriches with his wealth this crypt • of yours I die in, exasperating accomplishment, my exertions • unrepentant perversions of burdensome libations pouring forth whole the • physical permutation of this, my itinerant, formless, fortune-seeking soul • yours holds close as if they were both doors • to the same hole, as if there were no • myth of another tomorrow to endure having to be • open for, more than momentary, eternal yearning for wounds • to close over turns immortal this Apollonian oracle of • ours this filth fulfills, two kids in the midst • of finding bliss where others, blind to its thrills, • deny pleasure can even exist, Pythian arms lumber long • and large, serpentine and strong, looming over anathema shadows • the scorn of the world casts, dissonant timbre of • unsolicited, unwarranted criticism of their cause almost cumbersome as • uncut logs, roll-calls of pet-names and pillow-talk, though wide • awake, cotton our mouths with soft polari, how heavy • the residual energy our third legs, our third arms, • throw onto these loins they warm, even after we’re • gone, writhe on thighs two down-low guys hide desire • behind, my fist gripping yours, yours gripping mine, hands • down pants which, down this path, will stand no • chance staying on as we stand our ground getting • off in the one spot of the park where • no one’s around, just close enough to depart should • the spark we edge need to be left sizzling • unfinished if, in our mission to touch what we’re • warned we should not, a passerby approaches and we • must abort, abandon this levity before it can even • lift off, until then, let’s litter as our brothers • have, this plot of earth with our life’s force, • seed its bed, froth the garden, with more solar • than any disowned son can give, for in your • presence my guilt turns into courage flourishing with fullness • of foliage the withering branch of this Tree of • Knowledge whose gift is to nourish us whose invisible • family its wisdom of experienced fantasies ensures will no • longer be disinherited, discredited, or ignored, when with you, • doing this, the pressing of our bodies to our • spirits proves we do, in fact, exist, and deserve • better than what this world refuses to give us, • its respect for men who love, surpassing the love • of women, each other the way David and Jonathan • did, for the battle never ends, the work never • finishes, after every progress appears another Goliath to vanquish.