The Panther
Another poem from my friend, the Christian mystic –
Whore VIII: The Panther
I
“Ooooo,,, Don’t you just love that panther head?” sighed the tourist.
I look on the wall where the beaded head hung.
The jaguar could have just walked in from the Mexican jungle outside.
I’ve been that panther, inside my lover, passing my passion.
“Oh, honey,” I thought, “you need me bad.”
II
“Relax,” said my whore. “You’re tense when you come.
Your wife ever tell you that?”
“My wife’s eyes are always closed. She wouldn’t know.
I am that panther when I come.”
She smiled, “Pat him on the head and tell him to be a good kitty.”
III
She ran her hands up my belly to my chest
And down my legs to my toes,
Calling my aura to manifest
Itself in a thick blanket of energy.
Her fingers asked for entrance to my male vagina –
That engenders shit instead of life –
And it pulled her in of its own accord,
Eager for her ministrations.
IV
Her other hand adored my dick.
She coo’d sweet nothings to
The Male for creativity and
Energy and action,
For heat and fecundity and passion.
She petted his head, praised him for being soft and yet hard,
For giving so much pleasure and receiving so little.
Waves of grace overcame me
Pulsing through the energy.
Like a woman, I was lost in my pleasure.
The panther nuzzled my neck,
Turned, and walked back into the jungle.