Transcend

A poem/rap/song about the oral-sex gap and how it highlights the need to transcend to a divine-feminine energy of nurture, compassion, intuition and imagination (something all genders have access to). I’ll be performing this on Thursday at Extra Second, the theme being sexuality.

Mend me, defend me 

Wear me, tear me 

If you must 

I trust my self-worth  

In us 

Or you, 

The robust, lack-lust  

Paying your field of vision 

To the thankless 

Picking up from born, or when born 

Women wank less 

Mixing up your crude definitions  

With a frankness, distress 

That I’m feeling guilt from the spilt 

Words that I confess 

But when I’m gyrate-insane 

Met with blankness, thankless 

Think my clits a nuke button that you can’t press? 

Fuck this. 

That I’m yours when the door’s 

Closed and I’m undressed 

Nah, I’m just a vessel in this wrestle 

For your fuck-mess, I guess. 

Lay down, as I drown 

In your excess life stress, repressed 

Then boom, as you ingress 

Huh…huuh…done, lifeless 

My ever pending turn as I yearn 

For your address 

I’m guessing from your face  

That it’s a rather nice process. 

Wait, just one second…fuck yes! 

Right there, success 

Oh you’re bored, well that’s progress 

I’ll caress, time-compressed, in darkness 

I know you find my self-pleasure hard, bless. 

My vagina’s complex, yes  

Does that not add to the fun of our sex? 

That I don’t blow my load one minute or less 

Over something as little as your fucking arm flex 

NO 

 
(Lifeless pursuit in the root of lust 

Looking for spirit it your pelvic-thrust 

Don’t respect my limits, I’ll learn to adjust 

For you’re the absent piece in my soul I trust) 

 

Now, I don’t wish to sound  

Like a compound of ungrounded, unfounded 

Hate, amongst the well-rounded  

Poems sexuality generates 

But mate, come on, let me slate 

The fact my turn is up for debate  

Whilst yours is seen as straight 

Contract in our contact  

‘But I’m not good, at that’,  

Communication’s hot

I’ll reinstate that at non-negotiable rate 

Until the gates of pleasure are opened.  

Your trait of cunnilingus hate, 

You can, like most, choose to transcend  

At any moment.  

For this shall propagate  

A revolutionary state  

Based on the compassionate weight, 

Inside us, and babe, 

Shall compensate for your total of eight  

Thrusts before your lifeforce dissipates. 

The divine-feminine future 

I advocate, is fate   

By that, I mean we’ll amputate  

Our hyper-masculine, Donald Trump-esque spate

That needlessly say, alienate  

Fixate on, dissociate from and dictate  

Females, gays, straight, minorities great 

Though this is learned and love innate  

This realisation’s fucking late 

But don’t wait to deflate  

Your ego, oh no 

Just take some time to penetrate.

rith-4_800

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