I Am Fed By Your Moans

 

What a tragedy it is, all of the words that die in our throats, their passionate syllables never spoken.

 

swallowed by fear

suffocated & suppressed

terrified by the danger of being fully expressed.

 

how blasphemous to deny our spontaneous cries of desire

our illicit prose of want

to say no to expression when our bodies are moaning:

 

Yes. More. Please. God.

 

To withhold what is raw & pure from our lovers

such a selfish sin indeed

muting our pleasure

restraining our creativity

damming our orgasmicness.

 

Choking on our own tongues

tied up by all the sex unsaid.

 

All of the dirty. The foul. The too much. The weird. The dark. The true.

 

I mourn the graveyards our mouths have become

our beds & bodies as coffins and tombs

where pleasure & potential come to decay & die.

 

The only lover worth being or being with is one with the courage to allow words to tumble out explicitly unfiltered & unrefined.

 

Who speaks their desire in present time.

 

Who surrenders their body, soul & mind

- to the poetry of the flesh

 

to the glory of the sensual & divine.

 

Give me your sounds.

Give language to your desire.

 

I am fed by your moans.