Spoken from the intimacy of my lips,
Hidden with the secrecy of a priests genitals,
I’m that priest; I pray your name at mass,
Beauty that only my fingertips preach about.
You’re the fallen apple that Adam devoured,
As a fruit renders mankind naked,
So do my thoughts bear all in capricious proportions,
And I take four bites from the bitten bite.
Look at me with sinful passion,
Make me bite the intimacy in my lips,
That I might pluck the juices thereof,
Quaff me; I want to swim in your insides.
I sing symphonies of synonyms,
Forgive my lack of punctuation,
For this is what my heart composes,
And musical notes have none.
I spoke a painting I wrote,
Conversations with your inner sheikh,
My name written on parchment,
That you might ponder my proposal in the life after.
Beautiful flower eyes,
Awakened by the awakening,
Concealed in the confines of one heartbeat,
As sacred as walls of a nun’s cornette.
That four letter word;
That makes me dance in the rain,
And I’m only wet from the gust,
That comes from pronouncing your name.
– Smyekh David-West.