Go Forth and Multiply

by bluepervina - © 2002

Your ass is the peach
on the limb swinging low,
a ripeness, sweet-fullness,
heavy flesh splitting slow.

You squat as I lie here,
my palms on the fuzz,
as a farmboy would be
with his sister or cuz.

My cock is the thumb
digging in, to the pit,
a twist and some pressure
will any peach split.

You howl and bemoan it,
my tongue and dick push,
while that color smiles fiercely,
so pink is your tush.

And, really, who'll blame you?
All fruit's filled with juice,
full aroma, pure essence,
guaranteeing deep roots.

You waste it, then what?
Peaches shrivel up dry
when no splitting spills juice
to bring life as it dies.

I'm the dutiful farmboy
or the beast who must root,
both tenders of earth,
seeking food in the fruit.

We both know it, what drives us,
though with words we can't say
how our time in the sun
grows this urge for the hay.

You will roll as I lie here,
off your knees, elbows bent,
all you'll know is you want it,
hope grown as I'm spent.

On the straw, such good farmkids,
you lie back, as you should,
as I pulp your sweet insides,
this peach with this wood.

I'm not listening, not watching,
not touching, not there
as you see not a farmboy,
not a husband, not air.

In the ripening thick
is a guard for the core,
while the sweet is yet leaking
and we've messed this barn floor.

You know it, as I do,
what fills us, what breathes,
strange growth gone to fullness
burst forth from dark leaves.

And we'll speak not of fucking
for a day, maybe two,
but the limb still bends low,
and my cock, still, will do.

My peach, I'm your farmboy.
The harvest is come.
More than I? Don't you know it?
sweet nature, death's drum.

Your feedback is welcomed!

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