Virginal discourse on literature

He asks me how many times I have made love,

And I say none.

No one has held me in their arms

Enthralled by lustful moonlight 

No one has given me 5 mins 10 mins 15 mins 30 mins 45 mins

Of wall fixated I-spy

I have lifted my skirt to wade through the stream

Where moss blankets over rocks,

And traps the plateaus of mud

He asks me if I know what I am into

And I say nothing

I am into rolls of beaded sweat

When the sun cascades over cliffs

I am into sensual fingers

Wrapping themselves in sheets and sheets

Of old prose

Written by some who are already dead.

He asks me if I know how to make love,

And I part myself

Lips, arms, thighs, legs and all

Extending into literary direction

That no one has touched me

Yet prose lays with me in my chamber

Offering sweet delicacies 

Written by poets 


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