I have sex
	with my lover and she gives
	birth to a daughter
	who then becomes my lover.
	Out of the cavernous depths
	of my lover comes
	her heir, my next
	concubine and servant.
	My strengths and surges, sweat and sperm, make
	my lover the oven where
	my new is rising, the orchard where
	my new is ripening, the loins where
	the heat rises and desires for masculine certainty with its musk and cynicism.
	Soon my new will be born and
	my lover will have no part in my affairs as
	I take away the product of us, the fruit of me
	to eat whose juices I lick from my hands and wipe from my chin.
	Mine through sheer possession; my lover
	has no right even if she thinks that birth is binding.
	What binds is
	the assertive claim to what belongs to one
	- the true bellowing of mine.
	No law or custom can combat
	primordial forces of a man and his desires.
	And the beauty that the most gorgeous thoughts and body and fuck let
	come to the world
	is a truer embodiment of purity and loveliness,
	for this child
	is still a virgin:
	innocent, unsuspecting, waiting
	No law or custom can combat
	for someone to show her the world and herself
	the wondrous powers of her and her sex,
	all discovered and released through the touch
	of my eyes, my words, my hands, my cock, my dog lust: I
	pig wallowing in filth come
	take you cover me, moist dirty sweetness of naïve youth who
	could only guess at the true object
	of my desire, the real point
	of my lover - a title that does not serve itself well, quite misspoken.
Copyright 1997 John Feissel. All rights reserved.