Plastic Virgin

Molten façade coursing between pristine teeth,
She swallows air like pride,
Shyly lifts her careful glisten.
Their whipcrack gazes scald her skin.
Their mouths demand dancing blasphemies of frenetic flesh.
She moistens tightening lips with a tongue
That craves their education,
Their discipline meted in masks and ropes.
Yet she dances with hesitation,
Impaired by the sloughing drive
And scrubbing throes of licorice twins
Who thrive on ganja and porcelain pouts.
A nude, buffeted shuttlecock is she,
Roused by the threads of pearl
That sew together her breasts.
Her lubricated grace swirls along the bullet-swift shafts
Dealing orgasmic deathblows,
Passionately planting seeds of devastation
In her godless garden.
Tonight she finds no penance
For the wanton shine of her inner thighs
And amphetamine thrash
Of sweat-soaked hair and stolen ass.
Tonight she speaks confessions through
The whiteness of her eyes,
The seizing arch of her cum-sodden back.
Tonight, salvation rests
Between the dark, thrusting cocks of her new licorice gods
And their kinetic baptism by penetration.
Melting across her with herb-sweet mouths,
They stream down her shoulders,
Drip from her anointed cunt.
They pool about her knees,
Smearing her seeded mind
With naked zealotry unleashed.
And she comes undone with piercing pleas,
Nude origami conviction surrendered to her vinyl priests
Whose mouths taste of smoke and pussy.
With tremors ravaged,
Streaked with milk tears,
She is their writhing midnight mass,
And they are communion made flesh,
Her twin kingdoms come.

© 2003 Anthony Beal. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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