Troy languishes on the sofa as
Tristan gazes hungrily down at him in preparation. Richard
O, to kneel before the blessèd altar;
Tristan, his back to us, sinks to
his knees before Troy’s groin. Their actions will
be guided by Sir Richard’s words…
Let quaking, creaking knees drop and falter
At the Fallen’s finest allegory
For the breast-arresting promontory
Of a sacrosanct plot of Paradise!
‘Tis there, for but a joyous, tragic trice,
One may from his Eden’s interim rife
Glimpse before him the prod of throbbing Life –
That sprig of Creation’s most rigid pride –
Purple with the promise of slime inside…
Troy unzips his jeans for Tristan.
Despite his delight; his breathless def’rence,
There lurks, alas, the limits of rev’rance:
For the flash of all religious event
Is, tho’ hot and blinding, brief in extent,
And sighs he a sorrowful surrender
On the fact of this fugacious splendour.
Thankfully but, such gloomy thoughts be fleet,
And to his worship shall his mind secrete
Again only the purest psalms of joy,
For here before him, like a bobbing buoy
Upon the toss’d and quiver’d sea of skin,
Floats a wonder of pliant discipline…
He takes it now in his tremulous hand
As would the tanner his bodkin command
If pressed upon Acteon’s god-slain hide,
And, palm to allied fingers wrapped astride,
Grasps the vascular shaft of meaty rung
To find its spongy pulse of burning sprung.
Then, to the rhythm of petroleum –
Of donkeys revolving ad nauseam
In the barrens of better-class barons,
Their hinds in orbit, their heads like herons
Plunging slender beaks deep into the peat
Of teeming marvel, its life to deplete
‘Ere the promise of a groaning respite –
To this cadence commences he his rite,
His every stroke a soft benediction:
Mellific in tone and measured friction.
He inhales – for ‘tis a potent portent;
An appetitillation of torment
For the drowning bloat of his avid tongue –
And draws through wide nostrils into each lung
The white musk of his human humidor,
Savouring the tobacchanal candor
Of that masculine, mind-scrambling ferment:
The swamp’d fog of a sallow, cotton tent
Awash in the must of sweat’s assurance,
The brace of rain on summer’s resurgence,
A whiff of moss, of fresh-cut grass, of plum,
Of urine, seaweed, a smidgen of cum.
Such be the zone’s delirious bouquet;
That toxicant tonic of crotch parfait.
Anon’s the idol devoid of all cant:
Rigid and upright in the shallow pant
Alike of lord and supplicant it stands,
The towering shaft by capital glans
Capped with a taut and skin-thinning polish;
An atlas of two-lane red and smallish
Secondarials riddle ‘round the pole
As a blue and tubular four-lane toll
Highway runs northeastward through eight counties!
This indeed is the finest of bounties:
The freshest selection from roadside stops
For peaches-and-cream of the corn-cob crops!
How can such a spread not make one hungry?
How can such a head not tempt him tonguely?
And so he tastes it; a modest flicker
Beneath the slit, where oozes the liquor
Of long, translucent anticipation,
And round the crown of his coronation
Tours his dense tip of salt-sensing tastebuds,
Mantling the micro-organismic suds
With an admiring glaze of saliva.
Then, as tho’ the dome were a Godiva –
Some delectable, bite-sized confection –
He surrounds the bulb of that erection
With an air-tight seal of his orifice,
And, as if some living, isomorphous
Central vac-backed home accessory, sucks.
‘Twixt open jaw the concavity tucks,
The tendons of his neck for strain pull tense,
What’s lung for the absence of air laments,
Until, by the clap of a happy kiss,
Tristan pops a loud release of puckered
The seal is breached in obsequious bliss!
So be inaugure’d the heaving of hips,
To which must hitch those amenable lips,
As up thus and down in round syncopation,
The rev’lers by their lilting elation
Prepare for that decisive tête-à-tête;
That mimicking, quickening castanet-
Inspired, lip-synthesired performance
Of ever-frenetic awn-conformanced
O, to kneel before that blessèd
To vanish from thy viscers the palter
Of a moribund race of riven men,
Staunch to replace it with the viscid Zen
Of throat-coating ‘lixirs labeled Young Lust!
Drink, my friends! Drink deep what gushes august
From the spirited geyser of that rod!
Consume it as you would Sir Richard Wadd:
For this – this salted glop of malt-oil’d cod
Like wafer and wine, is flesh from
(Utterly spent:) Jeezus Christ…
Tristan wipes his mouth and tries
to catch his breath.
(Defy me at your peril:)
Let cringe the choirs that wring from me no shame,
And fools of fine etiquette, fret my fame.
For by my right – my firm theosophy –
I body it forth sweet pornography.