Cunt-stricken
I am the glory of a whore
Here to worship at the shrine
Of your sex and wetness
Solomon’s Choir sings in praise of your great name
Accompanied by a cacophony of one-thousand whips cracking and the gnashing of teeth
Cunt
Cunt
Cunt
Warm wet, rolling contractions
A luscious, lush, iridescent bush
Sheen, shimmering sits in silence,
Hungry for a healthy, heaping, helping
of my big prick
Draw me into your voluptuous void
I am here to pray within your bleached temple walls
Warm,
Soft.
Like the clouds you rest yourself in.
With those inviting arches,
High rafters
And colored panes of glass
Your cunt was dripping as I pulled my unshaven face away
Your radiance hides your whorish tendencies, you salacious bitch
Do I fuck you better than those other men?
Do I?
You skank
You slut
You loose woman!
Is it my cock you think of when they are inside you
Or am I not the focus of your lust when I am in worship, writhing inside of you
Cunt,
Cunt,
Cunt
This cunt is a fucking cunt
But yours is a nice fucking cunt—
And a cunt I love fucking!
I am fucking you.
I am only fucking you
I have come to worship at the shrine of your lust and your lust alone
I make no sacrifice at the altars of your love
I refuse to pass the veil and enter into the Holy of Holy
I will burn down your temple and set the inner walls of your cunt ablaze
Destruction
Debauchery
Dong
Await you as you fall,
Fall to your knees
Anticipating the coming taste of my liberation
I am unbound!
I am boundless!
I am!
I am only when I am fucking you
When I am not fucking you
I am not
When I am fucking you
I am your master
Do as I say,
reveal your whorish ways
and bring here your cunt
Cunt,
Cunt,
Cunt.
I am as the heroes of old—
A slayer of gods
Come to bring you to your knees
With my longsword
Hilt in hand to slay the beast—
your wet cunt
Falls upon my unsheathed weapon
And my hand caresses your waist
My sword polished by your juices
swells, twitches,
and fills your womb
Sharpened with your whetstone,
I am here to slay every man who will ever have you
Cunt,
Cunt,
Cunt
Neil Cypress is a post-ironic poet hailing from the rolling hills of Appalachia. Neil is currently between homes and working on his first collection of poems, The Lonely Lecher. Among many things, he loves taking care of his pet raccoons, his favorite being Reggie, and passing time window shopping at the local strip mall.
