I wish I could say I wrote this...it's by a friend who's an organizer for TLGB issues:

First Radical

Am I your first radical?
A revolutionary fuck,
feeling you up
while dressing you down
feeling around for sense of identity
while its escaping me as to why,
so I say fuck it,
while helping you
while helping myself 
to a consensual fruit
flavoring the salt of your lips,
the skin of your neck,
the sweat on your thighs.
I've pumped my fist in the air so many times
for the right to do
what I think
we're about to do,
that my biceps all the way to my fingertips
just keeps growing stronger.

But it seems everytime your eyes scream directly into mine,
the message that resonates runs parallel to mine,
and I refuse to deny that this will go by
without feeling,
it's just not the conventional type.
But nothing really is
as every pelvic pump preaches another gospel
according to resistance,
according to power,
according to beauty 
in the Holy Bible of our liberation.

So speak to me in tongues, because you know it'll start miracles.
Make me moan to make sure I'm still breathing.
Press your heart on mine to make sure its still beating
bleeding together
becoming one body we find solidarity
while we pray and preach simultaneously,
in union or individually
or whatever happens to happen.

Kiss my lips that move to make a motion,
then kiss my lips that exist to destroy notions,
connotation, expectations,
and bring life forward.
And I will pray before I come
in
to your universe of one body, one love
that the fuck-up that follows will be a helpful one
God,
eternally omnipresent,
resting between my knees,
grant me the serenity to make my bed,
and lie in it,
love in it,
die in it,
then rise from the dead and refuse to straighten the sheets.
Because as my heavy breath breathes harmony to your heavy swallows,
I find myself bathing in what God gave me
as a Holy and radical communion,
and hoping you'll approach the altar for yours,
receiving blood and body,
leading or following spirit,
which proves to be beautiful, too.
And as you slide your hand inside,
consider you're sliding your hand into mine
as we stand on a picket line screaming for freedom,
and consider that God lies between our grasp,
soaking in to our skin to provide us this strength.
And consider my moans are to celebrate freedom,
and that I scream out God's name
because I see her so clearly.