Classic Poem

The tip of my existence, the soldering iron of wet hot flesh,
Inserted in a death smith's gentle forge, quickly increases its volume.
The iron turns red hot, the iron turns white hot, and at the pinnacle of white heat, finally, melts from its cusp.
O, spurting, white-muddied, thick liquid at the moment of existence metastasizing into nothingness!
The liquid spreads like a cloud and enters the womb, depths of the burning force.
But look, the one who has accepted my existence, is not facing me.
The tongue tip sharpened like a hook swims in the air, trembling.
So, what I am invading is no womb, but a flexible male rectum.
From rectum to oral cavity, what puzzling swells and coils of entrails!
Like Arabian labyrinths, like the ant holes the legendary bull inhabits,
Like a thunderhead's interlacing corridors, they are entangled, complicated.
My liquid, which is myself, invading every labyrinth,
Every ant hole, and every corridor, all at once spreads throughout him.
But look again, this invader is not me,
Rather, the one invaded is no one but me!
I have, by a true existence, my rectum bloodied and disgraced,
And from my tip twitching in painful bliss, into space,
Not the thick liquid, but feeble air is radiated,
And continues to be radiated.