Wednesday, 25 August 2010


Somewhere in the great pantheon of man’s language
Resides a word,
Or phrase,
Or ideograph shape;
Or glyph
Or guttural riff,
That once uttered,
Or grunted,
Or otherwise tumbled from tongues
Will reduce a woman
To crumbling knees,
And make her freeze in ecstasy,
And I know
That better men than me
Have sought the centuries
For its patronage,
But I’m prepared to look longer
In order
To discover
This lover’s idiom,
And once attained
Will claim it and tame it,
And bring it back home,
And use it on you,
My sweet paramour,
And make your orgasm
Talk back to me
In a whole new vocabulary.

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