Love Sermons Shouldn’t Be Given To Boys Without Shadows
that night you told me you were in love with me,
i kissed you to keep those words back in your mouth.
love sermons shouldn’t be given to boys without shadows.
my hands ran gently through the curves of your body.
i cupped your huge breasts, and tore your dress apart
as though it was a barrier, as though i foreshadowed
your heart will become shredded just like each piece.
i made your knees bow as i positioned myself behind you,
holding your wrists straight in one palm, backwards.
love is a disease — choking and stroking you is the cure.
i held your soft neck firmly in my other palm as though
you are being sentenced to death — death by hanging.
i broke into you from behind as robbers break into banks.
each thrust is a reminder that lust hosts pleasure than love.
you were silent, but your lips moaned my three names softly,
continuously, as though you were being taken to heaven alive.
i spanked all feelings of love out of your body and soul.
i drilled more burning desires into you than i drilled emotions.
i took you to heaven — yes, you screamed your creator’s name.
i pulled myself out of you to come upon your pretty face,
a violent way to remind you that your beautiful face
deserves more of pure milk than flowers from a lover.
this is a tale of bodies/ bags of bodies/ tied together with a chain of lust/ in a room painted nude/ these bodies wear verbs in different positions/ like standing/ sitting/ squatting/ bending/ and lying till their hanker is stretched/ their flesh recount the many desires left uneaten/ but now passion flows like liquid fire/ through veins sculptured on turgid members/ and swollen clitorises/ some preach moans with a missionary/ and glorify groans like dogs/ emotions rise/ whispered nakedness turns wild screams/ escaping through phallus-stuffed mouths/ of bodies transformed into mind blowing winds giving blow jobs/ as others crescendo into nirvana/ erupting cum and orgasm/ these bodies become/ a party of pendulums pounding pussies/ bollocks banging buttocks/ fists twisting into holes with urge to drill fire into their skin/ these bodies tell tales of changes/ of positions/ and of partners/ who do not fail to ride evil into a good pool of sweat and orgasm/ these bodies will end/ and will begin another round of amorous marathon/ where all that have holes/ gender-agnostic/ become home to famished phalluses/
Temidayo Jacob is passionate about espousing the conflict between the individual and society. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. He is the Creative Director of foenix press. He is also the author of Beauty Of Ashes. Temidayo’s work has appeared and is forthcoming on Rattle, Outcast Magazine, Lucent Dreaming, The Temz Review, Rigorous, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, and others. You can reach him on Twitter @Temiddayo