The Chorus

The Chorus

Embracing his swollen cock.
Into her mouth,
gagging to almost throwing-up.
Twisting the blowjob into her as
an impalement of full body experiences.
To inhale the sweet soapy scent
of his balls and pubic hair,
the pungent odor of his ass.
He had pleaded like a small boy for her
to fuck him and when
she pulled out the small blue dildo
it had shit on it.
These are his fluid parts;
his cum, his piss, his saliva
his un-cried tears,
the words that tumble like kisses
from his lips.
his sadness
as it rolls in his soft belly
like a tumble weed,
aimless and unexpressed.
He gazes at her through eyes
that reflect a thousand feeling
words at once,
a prism casting rainbows across
a complex formula that is his map of understanding.
She uses speculation as a speculum to dissect
the malignant tumors that are fat with his secretions.
She is his sounding board
his fucking board
his whore board.
(How many times he would lean her
against a fence. She, an audience of one.
amidst a thousand smiling faces.)
Smoking weed,
listening to his music.
Knowing the fingers, which now caressed the bass,
had only minutes before played her clit
just as skillfully.
His music comes from Her lips
in moans and gasps.
On and on, he strums until
She begs for the hard hit
of penetration to punctuate the chorus of his song.
She was the chorus of his song.
Reappearing between stanzas
until everyone could sing her.