The first images I saw of sex,
Were diagrams of people cut in half,
Picture books of all the little bits and bobs dissected and analyzed.
I fucked a girl like that once,
She never spoke,
So I did nothing but dissect silence.
The next images I saw of sex,
Were puss, and ooze, and open wounds,
Mistakes and regrets writ on skin.
We were having sex,
When our son died in your womb,
It was too late when I first saw him.
Somewhere in there,
Was porn, staged and stilted as ever,
You can see the cut shots hanging under-eyelids.
I only ever fucked her,
Because she gave great blowjobs,
And I didn’t want to use her.
The first time I saw a sex organ,
It was mine,
It felt like me.
You glowed when we were naked,
And when we were spent,
I could fall asleep in the house of your breathing.
(First time I had sex,
He was blonde, my age,
And his penis tasted like me.)
First time I had sex,
She was brunette, younger,
And it was empty.
Sex is a language.
