Jem Rolls

Some people can really, really sing.

If you can really, really sing, go for it.

Yeah, I don't know actually.

I don't know when I'm back.

Because, well, you know, well, anyway, I've got a funny one.

European damp.

I've only been in the tropics or minus 30 Canada.

And yeah, I just didn't get that many sort of bikes.

But I don't know.

So I still do fancy the Amazon.

I'm just examining where's rainy seasons and when doesn't.

Everywhere seems to be belting down with rain in November, December.

Well, thank you, Jennifer.

So this is a full-on sex poem, and this is called The Lyrical Orgasm.

Ejaculatory spasms of uncontrollable joy are shuddering through me in rhythms and tremors, evoking, enacting the word, curve, and gesture of our delirium, my upheaval, our play, juddered out by, arced out by, fanned out by, my loving tongue, my blurting mouth, my whiplash neck, my spurting heart, my thrown-about, throwaway mind, my body convulsed from tip to core, from furthermost extremity to innermost heart by an adrenaline rush, by snatches of word, by shards of thought, by fate fleeting,

or flooding, pleasure flowed, idea mixed by sensual glow, by my peace-filled past, by an everything at once, throbbing through me, reaching, surging, welling through me, the body breathering, briefly, freewheeling, the mind accelerating, hypoventilating, charging, searching, jerking, urging, with insatiable desire, lust, thirst, and thrust, for more and more, all and all, on and on, for wider, larger, subtler, sharper, wittier, defter, fuller, faster, for all and all, on and on,

More and more, my catharsis, shredded, tinsel, shining briefly in the falling of time and the light of my mind, the switched-back rodeo rider, too jam-packed in too short a time,

holding on for grim life, for dear life, for all and any life, to skin, to silk, to cream, to cloud, to the motoring discharge of scraps, strands and strains of word, image and sensation, throwing, thrilling and shimmying, the merged pleasures of mind and body, that way and this, this way and that, as the unleashed torrents of chunks, flails and sprays of jism and jouissance, gusts flooding out into the world.