by Emil Brumaru (b. 1939)
To an Eminescian blonde Would that your ass split in two comely spheres,Would that your cunt cleft in four luscious lips –A chariot made of silk are you, and sheer,Wheels dipped in fragrant oil from tip to tip. Your mug be cast behind the sugar barsOf your gold hair cascading down your breast,Like straying sunbeams longing from afar For sheets where their remembered sun can rest. My thing snaps with delight like fourteen fingers,And sauce is welling up within my soul,As I devoutly lick your skin that lingers While flowing honey-like from crown to sole.
by Emil Brumaru (b. 1939)
by Emil Brumaru (b. 1939)