Poem: Feral Moans


I can taste you,
Taste you like a tiger can taste the pheromones,
The moist-mouthed possibilities of its mate,
A million miles across the jungle

You have no stripes,
Only tattoos of flesh,
The fur of unshaven legs,
Of the mount of Venus,
Cradled like a secret between your thighs

But a secret never put out so many feelers,
Crawling into your hungry earth,
The womb of millipedes and scented death

I can taste it in your breath,
Thick pants of fire, inferno-lunged,
The danger of sex,
Of mutually-assured seduction,
The G-force of a lunging lioness,
Gnawing blood of sensual death

From pheromones,
To feral moans,
Of sweat beads pushed to erotic panic,
Overstraining the cracked ribs of lust



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