The sandstorm furls your inner thigh,
beneath the flesh-giving navel,
the tart of the orange
on nude-smooth grains, squeezing
its juice on your Ivory
Coast. But the shoreline
is ebony, soaked in stains,
leaking the starch of hairy
sweat. So does the virgin
drench the aftertaste dry
with the gore of the swamp,
drinking disgust
for the wonder of life.

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	pup - February 11, 2007 (09:17 PM) That was absolutely painful. I don't mean that in a bad way either. I was actually wincing while reading it.