#4450 Nov 22, 2012
Morning brings no
As your slender fingers
part the files of strangers
catalog the fruits of excess
in a dimly lit room
you remember how I parted you
just last night
Strangers enter your office
You smile, exchange pleasantries
all the while your thoughts never
from the way I entered you
just last night
Beneath your desk
your hand remembers
with your fingers against your clit
you trace a recently travelled road
one that I forged
#4451 Nov 22, 2012
This wooer has no opportunity
to bathe with the contortionist
in a pond
under the full moon which is tonight
If he could, they would
bend and twist
glide soap to, then beyond
each others' curves
If she would, he would
let hands, legs,
arms and feet seduce
toes squeeze sponge
spurt, squirt drops
#4452 Nov 22, 2012
white sheen translucent
coursing with blatant purple veins
and purple budding lips blossoming
ripe & full like violet flower
hands on soft, silken pillow hips
pale, frail, violent & true
rush of pulsing coc k
in that ripeness
purple-lipped violet flower
hands gripping, fingers clenching
pure pale-frail violent hips
rushing crashing against her shore
sure, back – boned – arching back up
– a hump – bulging out of
strewn saffron chiffon sheets
gentle & fluff; stuffed
animal laying near
fingers gripping clawing at
saffron chiffon – stuffed animal – sheets
like an animal clawing gripping
at MY skin
pure & ready
deep & delving
pure wet moist radiance
gripping clawing sheets
coursing purple veins
grunt groan heave
shock of radiance
cracked broken window pane
blowing shocked breeze
CRUSHING her hips with my fingers
release of spirit essence
moist-wet purple-lipped violet flower
cresting rippled wrinkled waves
& sweat & pour
Poor me & rest again…
… and begin again tomorrow
#4453 Nov 22, 2012
Music pulses through the speakers,
fills the room with a techno beat.
Sticks, wooden spoons, pieces of pipe
beat out a staccato that will
leave bruises tomorrow morning.
The drummer dances to music
while she moves from ass to calves, from
feet to shoulders, from biceps to
The slap of wood and plastic
on skin keeps time with the primal
The drum smiles serenely
processing the pain, feeling the
beat, sometimes tapping a toe or
fidgeting a finger.
Mostly, he floats on an endorphin high.
#4454 Nov 22, 2012
to ceiling to floor
skids, pulls the planks
of our fervor.
Your ankle taps
the radiator grate
on the highway wall
all the way up
for winter sake
for skin sake.
Your ankle taps
to a burn,
floor never gives
walls never give
raw oval skinpoints,
blister above your heel.
#4455 Nov 22, 2012
as I come upon your belly
you watch a long, white stream flow
"that was beautiful..."
and I flow again
I remember that moment every day
how pornstar movie tricks
become a tear on my face
your blue eyes incensed by lust
your kiss by love my heart my dream
my release becomes art upon you
#4456 Nov 22, 2012
tasty pecan praline
sweetens my tongue.
that warm September afternoon
lost amongst the trees
beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.
Your long brown hair
tousled by the breeze.
I stop to brush a strand from your eyes
and see anticipation
a torrid yearning
I stand behind you
my breasts firmly against your back.
Brushing your hair aside,
I softly kiss the nape of your neck.
Quivering, your body surrenders.
Feathered grass - autumn leaves
Entwined in passion
my lips explore your breasts,
sensuous curves, taut
awaiting my attention
of which I hungrily comply.
Writhing in tune with the wind
your body cries for release.
from your breasts
I cannot pull away
my hunger not yet satisfied.
So, I decide
to let my fingers
- do the walking -
and set your passion free.
Back to reality
I open my eyes
the sticky, sweet praline
from my fingers.
#4457 Nov 22, 2012
The oscillating dome danced down so
I let the prestigious prick panhandle and paddle along my river.
Watched the waters slip oil onto the soil
Like it had before for a thousand foreign courts and oracles;
Fleshy phantom anvils still arresting me by me skivvies.
“Two cuckold captors
apprehended me apples;
pinched me colonial crowns still grazing
on me blushing construction!”
So criminalized by his punctuated
and persistent deliveries
I swallowed my own moon like it was Oriental.
I crowed and crowed and cowered.
Crawled into the wet and up the handle!
Cradled the crown and then devoured
all the courtiers sidling down.
Swallowed the sweet incense
into my purple plush lips.
Distinction for the strange,
sticky, derby designs
still dancing deliciously down!
#4458 Nov 22, 2012
I was old enough to be
I watched his body move
like sweetgrass in spring,
and he smiled as he bent over
to run his hands,
brown as maple sugar, along my
tires to make sure they were true.
Squatting down to inspect
my chain, his thighs spread
wide, bone and muscles lengthening
under low-slung khaki shorts.
Each one of his fingers touched
the stain of what was left
of the oil as he lifted it gently,
black smudges migrating up
to his temples as he brushed back
his long, amber hair.
I was happy to let him
When the bike was ready,
my tongue became smooth
as a pearl when I called him over
to adjust the seat again.
He leaned near me,
and his skin smelled like the sun
on slickrock sand.
His arms were long and when he stood,
I could hear
the murmur in his ribs.
Mothers of boys are dangerous.
We have pressed our mouths
against the small flesh
that came from us, extracting ambrosia
from flowers only we can find.
He was so beautiful, I was afraid
If I opened my mouth,
yew berries, little mariposa souls
would have rattled out instead of words.
#4459 Nov 22, 2012
I want you in my bed...
your body my blanket
covering all parts of me
keeping me warm...
I want you in my body
filling me up
leaving your mark
I want your hands
exploring every part
searching out my body's secrets
I want you to take
what is here for you
for the taking
Let me pleasure you
fill YOU up
satisfy your every need
your every desire
You will never crave
#4460 Nov 22, 2012
"I miss the length of you"
"Slipping easily into my cun t
The way our hips move
Locking into place....
I miss the sex of you
Driving in and pulling out
The slippery slickness of flesh
Drowning me down.....
I miss the force of you
Filling the length of me
The way you boldly move
When we fuc k".
#4461 Nov 22, 2012
I am a quill pen dipped in soul-black pitch. You are my notebook.
I open you and begin to inscribe your pages.
Fuc k love....... We make poetry.
I kiss memories from your forehead and swallow them whole,
smoothing the lines that housed them. We make each other younger.
Our bodies grind together like clock gears to turn back time
because what we're doing is timeless, ancient and futuristic, holy,
our lips and tongues clasped like hands in prayer,
flesh bitten and held like communion wafers,
your fluids wine to my tongue.
I smell salvation in your sweat.
You taste like autumn, your body exploding
in bursts of fire and gold as my tongue searches your curves,
seeking renewal as I penetrate you in an act of gentle violence,
and each thrust is Excalibur extracted from the stone.
Let's roll around in the dirt until we make it clean,
transform our spinning bodies into drills
aimed for the heat of the earth's core
just to make it seem cool by comparison.
Let's shave the moon's pussy and go down on her together,
stick our tongues through stars to make them numb
just to feel the pins and needles when we kiss each other
back to life, our lips double stitched with iron twine.
Let me be the lightning that splits your clouds,
your rain pouring out to a standing ovation of thunderclaps.
Let me drown in your flood, my lungs full to bursting
with just a fraction of your beauty.
Let me inhale you.
Let me be Oedipus to your Mother Earth.
I swear I'll be the brightest son.
Nestled in my arms for shelter, you whisper,
"No more metaphors, baby........
#4462 Nov 22, 2012
hot summer day
heat, humidity high
little bit of clothes
sticking to my body
hands over sweat soaked skin
dripping with desire
aching, needing, wanting
cat in heat
ass in the air
dirty, naughty, nasty
I'll be your bitch...."
#4463 Nov 22, 2012
He opened a fresh Sharpie
and handed it to me.
It's acid tang settled in my throat.
He watched as
I struggled to write
Property of -
on the Venus Mound
His Venus Mound
The shaved area above my sex
This is poetry after all
And it is his property
upside down and backwards,
from my point of view,
a kinder like scrawl.
Tiny razor bump and
the sharpie skipped, then
wobbled as it hit the dip of a faint stretch mark,
A souvenir from the child I bore.
PROPERTY OF -
Then with somber purpose, He
took the sharpie, and
signed his name.
#4464 Nov 23, 2012
She laughs like thunderclaps
and dances like hot mercury,
a hip drip slow poison
that slides over your skin.
I can't take her high strung highway.
I am not allowed her dew petal lips
parted over my sleeping chest.
Her muscles, taut with the weight of me,
are not mine.
I can't have her background chatter.
The husky lilt beneath her no shit
sherlock voice is not mine.
Her wanderer's long and
short strokes are not mine.
Her quick to unclothe and
slow to re-robe are not mine.
As much as I might will it,
her wide spread,
salutary thighs are not mine.
I use her openly.
To the beckon of my two fingers
she comes to me on all fours,
slow wound round my wrist and lit loose
like bottle rockets
to spit hot fury all down my palm.
#4465 Nov 23, 2012
She told me;
"I want it to smell like snowfall in September
gingerbread and old words
fresh laundry in the wintertime,
when moisture rises and scents freeze seconds after recognition
a calendar, compass, solar-operated windmill
with a confidence of numbers and directional patterns
your workday: nine hours: no lunch-break
high-impact exercise—no shower
fermented dairy and honey
dried apricot commingling with whiskey
morning breath after a night of oral sex and no mouthwash:
I want it to smell like a cun t.
I want it to sound like Lou Reed serenading Andy Warhol’s co ck
Anne Sexton eating out Virginia Woolf
breaking between orgasms to reapply red lipstick and smoke a joint
erotica read backwards : I don’t mind beginning with an orgasm
slammed skin against water
sixteen cellos playing in both ears,
a waterfall of fingered strings, until blisters form until each traveling note descends
a forced entrance of F sharps, Bs, G flat
the removal of seeds from a pomegranate,
muted tearing of flesh
repetition of push ups, when chest-skin stretches and
moans emit from within cardio-inebriated organ
I want it to sound like a steaming iron against wrinkled gauze,
the sizzle of smoothness,
blended with coarse hairs leaving a mark.
fingerprints tapping against plastic keys, spelling out restrictions, or
the migration of a tongue licking one side of sticky, stuffed, folded, addressed
a moment of silence, when breaths gain momentum and search for an exit sign
when gags take the shape of a padlock
I want it to sound like slowly stirred soup,
progression of boiling water
do you prefer manager or supervisor?
are you allergic to adhesives?
I want it to sound like me inside you.
I want it to taste like bananas foster or
beer on a day of ninety-three degrees
blood from all the circulation.
lemon bars with a weather forecast of sifted sugar confusing the color
tin. copper. rind. leather./friction.
I want it to taste like jalapenos,
curving teeth and teardrops competing with sweat stains.
I want it to taste like everything you’ve ever eaten, questioned
like the bark you rubbed up against that time,
giving your thighs seven splinters
and my pus sy three orgasms.
like the cotton you’ve climbed into, out of, and tried on
curdled celebrations, incomplete
in need of an ending…
your vibrators: the red one. striped blue. the other made of glass.
your dietary restrictions,
and the chocolate bar you slip between lips when no one is around.
I want it to taste like a cun t.
I want it to feel like four-hundred thread count,
woven tightly per square inch
an intricacy of fibers and leftover positions.
a final joint after nineteen years of dedicated inhales and swollen lungs
the expense of tar and excluded conversations
love affair leaning against signs measuring
twenty feet from establishment
flavored staleness and shame.
can it feel like that?
can it feel like that?
I want it to look like a Kandinsky, colorful and confusing
vast and open to interpretation
I will need some time to study it:
decipher the angles
I am slow at mathematics—
refuse to use calculators,
so I will need to use my fingers
and when I am done
and no longer thirsty
or conceivably hungry,
you will offer me a napkin
in the shape of your mouth
wait twenty minutes
until I am ready for seconds."
#4466 Nov 23, 2012
My tongue's mind fights against me,
it wrestles for control,
when it discovers I am the stronger one,
it recruits my memories
and together they argue against my better judgement,
they remind me of the wet trail
left through beads of sweat on her hip
as my tongue, that persuader of thought,
glided along there last night.
My day's task requires concentration,
but the night's memories overtake me.
I am weak, I am weak.
I can taste the soft skin of her neck,
her open mouth and eruption of breath,
her body pulsing as I descended in indulgence
to the sapidity of our pleasures.
I am weak, I am weak.
You old tongue, you've won,
my chair is empty as this day's work ends early,
you shall get what you seek.
#4467 Nov 23, 2012
the mountain with
you breathe heavy the possibilities
and we arm in arm through town
on our way to the riverbed, you
smiling like the girl you are and me
winking, blowing kisses to passer-bys
aghast my bouncing coc k.
when in our wake they flood
jaw-flopped, I whisper
a demand into your bumblebee brain
to squeeze my ass, and you do so reluctantly
as is to be expected.
I retaliate your trepidation,
your freezer feet, your fuc king fumbling finesse
with a bite on the cheek. you snap away and
push my rib cage from yours.
I spin and fall to the mud,
parting the valley to peek you
through my knees.
"well then," I implore,
"what's it gonna' be baby?
you've got me where you want me."
#4468 Nov 23, 2012
I wait against the wet brick,
not facing what waits for me.
I need a detective’s periscope,
some antique of Sherlock’s.
Will it be a lush, juicy c unt
throbbing with anticipation?
Can I taste my future?
The thought makes me hungry.
Or will I find only an empty uprising,
an unpalatable ideology
of freedom or liberty
that I may not be able to swallow?
Maybe I will start a revolution
if I don’t get the meal I want.
My demand is for the main course
to stay still. I’ll help, of course,
a hand wound around each thigh,
licking closer and closer to the core.
Will she revolt against my hold,
shake and curse until I set her free?
There will always be a c unt or a revolution around the corner
#4469 Nov 23, 2012
Your sound waves rippling audaciously—
She says to me....with that glint in her eye...
"Oh you taste so acid!
You pour over me and I'm melting
Down into the mitochondria
That whirl like the dervishes.
Round and round into the mad merry-go-STOP.
Fuck me so hard
Until our flesh is melded
Like molten steel being pounded into shape.
What shape shall we be?
Shall we be the sword
That slices so sensuously
Across such silky fragile thought?
You're so smooth... I sense you with my tongue.
I take your sound in my mouth and taste you
And I seep into your pores and
I twist and pulse through your veins.
My nipples are your candy cherries
That you indulge in
So relentlessly while you
Penetrate me so slowly and gently and I scream.
Then you crush me with the intensity
Of the throbbing rhythm of your bass
As you mix the sounds,
So that I can no longer make a sound
Because of the trembling ecstasy
That you thrust into me.
There is only the rushing noise of the planets
Hurtling through space
In this universe that is only in our heads.
I say oh my god...
And you are my god.
I want you to make me feel like that again".
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