sycamore sunday mass

we met in the desert.
shared a pipe,
the sun stripped us,
i was a gypsy,
superstitious and free.
my cock was cursed,
tangling with his tongue.
boulders in the sycamore,
were cool to the touch.
his balls were warm,
with delicious sweat.
we invented our religion,
without murder,
and mayhem.
no one is blind here.
my fingers found the path
to his ass.
we prayed,
while morning was breaking.
“oh my god, fuck,”
we chanted our rosary.
the waterfall tumbled,
over the rocks,
ejaculating seed,
along the way.
the sycamore flowed,
inside us.
my confession,
was to fuck him.
surrounded by high water,
and anonymous souls.
organic love was everywhere.
his nipples were the stars,
his navel was the moon.
for his enlightenment,
i fed upon him,
my communion,
with the saints.
our flesh,
was sacrificed,
to the sun,
i was a cannibal,
he was
the body and blood,
of my holy eucharist.

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