I am Werg
by Tom Murphy

I am Werg, my name comes from you.
That is you make me swell with sap,
Ripe with wild dancing and debauch.

An excess of your ambrosia vessel.
The urn curves for the harpoon;
Succulent impalement in this lap.

Gyrations and undulations abound.
Lips-locked, fat tongue balls; release.
Handgrip maximus, now suck festoon,

Pulsation, urn’s internal clench.
Moan to thrust, bellow and ball,
Clasp arms adorn the neck of the beast.

Ground flesh welding flesh with heat and juice.
Claws nap hair tight; pulls head back to bare neck;
Skin-licks an utterance signals the orgasmic call.

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