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The sound of fuck is a mysterious thing.

Sometimes it comes when you sing,

A simple chorus to a one night fling;

Sometimes it accompanies a tune of voluptuous flair,

When you’re lost in passion’s forgotten lair.

In a world of desire,

Men and women scribe with sensual gesture;

Their pages lay open where clothing is shed,

They whisper a wordless language of secrets

wherever they lay to bed;

Permutations of skin determine the vocabulary of passion,

A syntax of limbs, a grammar of position;

All serve as a predicate to the action of ecstasy;

But words are lost to an ancient, animalistic memory.

Think of all the times flesh smacks on flesh,

When two bodies melt into an intertwined mesh;

Think of the moans and groans;

Think of the sighs and highs;

Think of the lows and throes;

Think of that sweaty, smutty, sexual muck;

Begin to learn language of the sound of fuck.