Veritas vincit  
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Henry T. Olirin

Henry is a wandering expatriot reading and writing his way into oblivion.

loose talk

the wild orgasm of her words
misspoken and groaning
wonderful and flowing
under a timid tearful stare

and then
a pause
and then
another

and then sound breaking into song
drawing back
then bending backwards
tongue erect and unravelling,
rupturing into absurdities:
splinters of English, flickers of French

her lips lidless and lewd


 

Love shorn between breasts

She is but a bust of carved skin
   sailing upon billows of bright
       strawberry scented bubblebath

her base begins with mouthpieces:
   two bulging protuberances
      (tongues!) burnt red with heat
         reaching out
for my cool lips    for my frozen tongue

but beyond these the bulbous mounds mount
    broken into pleasure’s supple crucible
(the only place emptiness is allowed to bloom)

       it is there
    that parts
of me melt into metal
    beads  of  mercury
that will never cool into dust


Post-coitus positioning

In an antebellum aura
there are two victors
impossibly peaced
into allies

a patch of threadbare skin
groans and then
suffocates

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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