The Gap, Australia

#4456 Nov 22, 2012
tasty pecan praline
sticky soft
sweetens my tongue.

I reminisce
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
wanton pleasure.

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
our playground.
Entwined in passion
my lips explore your breasts,
supple, vulnerable
sensuous curves, taut
voluptuous nipples
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.

The Gap, Australia

#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.

I confessed:

“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!

The Gap, Australia

#4458 Nov 22, 2012
(She said......)

I was old enough to be

his mother.

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

fix everything.

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

to speak.

If I opened my mouth,

yew berries, little mariposa souls

would have rattled out instead of words.

The Gap, Australia

#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
claiming me
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

The Gap, Australia

#4460 Nov 22, 2012
"I miss the length of you"
She said;
"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".

The Gap, Australia

#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.

King me.

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........

"Let's fuck.”

The Gap, Australia

#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

crazy, horny

aching, needing, wanting

cat in heat

ass in the air

"fill me"

she said;

"do anything

dirty, naughty, nasty

I'll be your bitch...."

The Gap, Australia

#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.


Then with somber purpose, He

took the sharpie, and

signed his name.

The Gap, Australia

#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.

The Gap, Australia

#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

large molecules
amino acids

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
informal invitations

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

commands. commanding!
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
or straddled.

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."

The Gap, Australia

#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.

The Gap, Australia

#4467 Nov 23, 2012
I come
slinking down
the mountain with
characteristic lupine

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."

The Gap, Australia

#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
~Henry Miller

The Gap, Australia

#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.
And then—

I want you to make me feel like that again".

The Gap, Australia

#4470 Nov 23, 2012
when I c um
I smell
the color

feel the cold
violet fragrance
with your

The Gap, Australia

#4471 Nov 23, 2012
I study the reflection of your body.
Covering mine, you're taught, tan,
sliding. In.
Inches consuming
my pallored assets.
We appear
a polared match.
Perfectly opposing:
my arch equaling your thrust;
your mouth defusing my scream.
We have become this dance
of silent fusion.
replacing each other's desire
with renewed fire.
That extinguishes
Except the responsibility
of seclusion.
And maybe
the random necessity for clothes.

The Gap, Australia

#4472 Nov 23, 2012
I cannot breathe
when your lips touch
my neck. Constriction
is complete when your skin
slides over mine.

Contraction. Math loses all
meaning. One dividing. Two
joining. Infinity effecting
the (w)hole. This sum
requires more than two parts.
And I part for them all:

Your tongue initiates
the flow. Feeling its way
from breast to hip.
Over. Lower. Everything
gone in a gasp of

electric fingers. Follow.
Teasing. Taming. Torturing
desire. My mind screams
against the pillow. Where
you are

finally. Inside, you
own me. Filling. Controlling.
Compounding. The fraction
of taste and touch defies

gravity's logic. We are
locked in a vacuum
of lust. Tearing
each other's skin. To

this is where we begin.

The Gap, Australia

#4473 Nov 23, 2012
Eat them
—soak your tongue purple
‘til you can spit lavender
seeds of budding
back into the earth.

Feel them, soft
silken petals—tickling
pollened nipples,
yellow belly, green-stemmed
thighs, reddened rose dripping
pollen to the roots.

Smell them—fragrant
flowers vanilla fresh
like overripe peaches, syrupy sweet
or caramelized candy—melting in the heat
of your mouth.

See them
—puckered pussy
willows, delicate daffodildos—
sweating petals, shedding leaves, coming clean
a sappy cream.

The Gap, Australia

#4474 Nov 23, 2012
She scatters in like autumn,

crimson. Each step is a match

striking the shadows erubescent.

She conjures bolts of lightning

to rotate her stride, tames

scorpions to bear her on their backs.

I swear it takes a week—

the same length of time

God needed to conjugate

a verb from breath—for her

to wind from the door to the stool

where her legs shiver down,

two serpents, thick

with all the promises of apples.

The Gap, Australia

#4475 Nov 23, 2012
You succumb to this lust
as you sink into the hidden
lava moving deep inside my c unt,
g-spot space between hunger
and purgatory, where pain is

You hold me with
albatross hands, your dirty
words confusing the slick war
between allies and lovers that
spins round and round with my
hips into the madness of certain

Take me to your priest,
shove me into your coc k of veined
steel, smile above me like a devil
mast, and hope this is just lust—
Pray I don’t take you into
the places between windows
and sunlight, where rain shines
like shards of glass and time sighs
suspended in love-fuc king.

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