Sussing's 'Wlyde'

All that matters, of the matter which is you,
herein these words seethe,
upon that, which is beneath your breasts,
baste' on the silky smooth of your flesh;
tense focused surely,
on thoughts that make, one's first sins shriek;
bound strikingly true,
within the folds and moist, that sweet scents thresh;
horizon's veil shorn clean,
mind's tastelessness, sans curiosity's cute pique;
tunneled truths, into that sought for sanctum,
between your sway and blush;
laid open ‘wlyde', lust's breach responds,
in kind the swollen ayes in flushing peek;
full fleshed, such tenders Vesta's orbit routs,
an ovum plucked, thrills fruit's full flush;
your self's swale, in instance pout and rue retreat,
my muse transgress it's mindful meek;
groping kneed, this path to precious piece,
she's sown sentir and promotes thought's tush;
one's leering intrigue tongues,
lovely tender folds, that yield their fresh to probing sweep;
pierced depth my thrust seeks sultry lock,
of passion's wile, and wide, wildly opened plush;
eulogistic moans released entomb within,
supple shrine of Venus moved, this gift of treasure's deep;
from mortary's flume and virgin's fruit begin,
cums heaven's seed, bearing love's gift du Ruche';
this truth's fineness, endowed of the universes' lament,
this send, this child of true will's own keep;
shorn of world's chains and turned to finest true,
upon the mind, which sees my sense in each lusting push;
matched in moaning fury by your want, and need, and burn,
to pull more than me into your syrup's suite;
towards ends that only Roman Emperors glee,
beyond Byron's "Land of Paradise" reviewed;
my lover's twins, those whining,
and moaning lips I buss.

by Michael Walkerjohn

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