Nigel Holt
Canaan Wedding
The gush of piss that passes through your gusset
outranks the juice of Pippin, Cox or Russet;
delights with scents of bouquets rare as roses,
lavender and vernal grass in posies.
Stored in jars its power slowly quickens,
yet without a weekly draught, my spirit sickens.
The primal reek that wafts along the breeze
is redolent of hours between your knees.
But best is fresh that flows across the floor:
no better cleaner yet than aching jaw
which presses lips to service for your pee,
your stained stiletto lording over me.
My eager tongue laps not for milk and honey
but something with the piquancy of tunny.
- from The Perversion Sonnets
