My trembling words pass so lightly
over your eardrums
to anoint imprisoned passions
and dally only where descent purrs with possibility.
Even with the stammer of uncertainty,
my rapture sings loudly,
dying to graze your feverish,
without misdemeanor of too much or too little
along the way.
With each pass of ribcage
and near swipe of eyelash across belly;
Perfecting flip of wrist and thrust of soul
heaves last year’s worries out of storage
and into applicable juice.
Our ginger approach innocently betrays
the incendiary fascination
we know better to be
for an affair.
Descent of the imprisoned
diffuses the beast asunder
to haunt with oscillating pride,
a relic of pawing ginger kisses
deliberate with forethought.
If a sigh can say it all,
imagine the lifetimes a falling body
might gesticulate, one vertebrae at a time,
through thickets of wanting.
A slight realization creeps in,
bereft of consummation
heavy on disappointment.
and loosens the noose of desire
that has been dragging me so sweetly
through the fantasy of you.
Our broken illusory drags my strong feet
through the mud of still unknowing
where you might have led me
had pedigrees and inclinations
There’s no failing here,
we can only have or have not.
Photograph by Deana Mitchell
I am a museum.
There flows under me a raving light
down the ravine,
My palette shifts.
It has rotated
on Nature’s turntable
turning and pausing,
perfusing and dotting
with its bliss.
Finally this most potent elixir
by the portrait of
you kneeling over my shrine,
these long thick legs of mine.
I think not about vulnerability.
for I am alone with one to love,
you and erotic instinct.
This is not surrender,
but a summons
for your pleasuring of me.
With me supine
and you on your knees,
you purr and sigh,
tower and breathe;
as I coo in the cool caresses
of your wet lips on my knees.
Into my thighs ribcage belly hips,
the invasion of your exquisite hands
scalds rays of pomegranate red heat
through my porous sands.
Like white coals awaiting a flame,
my soft flat stomach arches
into your teasing game.
In hot hands I feel your desire
indelibly soft, traveling
up thighs to hip bones,
up waist to rib bones.
Sliding down muscles of shoulders
across mounds of breasts,
pulling tight over hard nipples-
you know what makes me moan
and create a lava-like glow and flow
of bubbling red tides
beneath radiating flesh.
Your limbs comprehend
my body art
like no others dared-
petting my need and filling my desire
with the higher laws of gods and sex.
Reaching deep into art and marriage,
conjuring up lucid effects.
infusing flesh with new life.
The brightest colors
not just the reds, yellows, and blues
of tertiary spectrum,
but pomegranate, sapphire, opal, and gold,
vanilla, marigold, night, and emerald.
Urging me to paint your every inch
with their bold wetness.
Licking, kneading, scurrying, haunting-
your arms become wet azure soil,
your hands, my onyx black sculptors.
Your chest glows with marigold
as pools of pomegranate sweat
evaporate off slick concaves
and taunted, fertile breasts.
Your taut vibrating skin
soaks my brilliant colors
into its dark soil,
coalesces with the primitive
to recombine with my sweaty
disavowal of control.
When I can no longer continue
consuming you with my eyes
as I love to see.
Too caught up in the breath
and feeling you feeling me.
I will seizure with love,
sharing my everything.
For you to drink up
into your pineal spring.
You stay locked in
until the waves pass.
Your riveted attention
rescuing me from celibacy.
Imagine how you please me
and I worship you,
how we make love.
Yes, in ten different ways.
We’ve only just begun.
roams deserted alleys.
in every city, blanketed.
A seductive gravity
ravishes, standing alone on a street corner.
She does not draw crowds
though every passerby and wall
slide her a sidelong glance.
Tall and willowy statuesque,
a voluptuous silhouette from collar
breastbone to pelvic pleat.
Her clothes are a sin.
Cruel confronting barriers,
she’ll climb your wall
before you heed wanton chances
to re-navigate Adam’s fall.
This girl is a woman who knows
why she pants and stalks the street,
what perineum beholds,
how to slacken her stack
Though when she enters your mind,
you alone in your apartment,
she is naked
for your scalpel eyes only,
bared rags of pristine flesh.
Why so prevalent?
Her bloodstains bereave smooth flesh.
As you shrivel into a plate of wrinkles,
all you can do is bemoan
that she did not come sooner.
unknown painting source
Crisp gorgeousness and easy bliss
do not shuffle up feelings
Welcome him, finagle her;
get them into candid cure.
Day fell already, hard to miss.
Triptych, she knows.
He stills, parsimonious.
Dip. Paw in, paw out.
Waiting to know.
Image: film still from Casablanca
You speak in euphemisms of your own making,
rattling off sycophantic truths in tongues
and ostracizing the periphery along the way
as they patter all over your sapient misnomers.
But I am caught in the know;
seeing the ice castle worlds that inhabit your mind.
I slide down them with mirth in me,
exalting in the cool sweat left
glistening along slick, bare flesh.
Your genius coming drips down the length
of my backside,
sloping into refreshing flux.
Lashed by your mindscape
I am outstretched, as on the rack.
Spread onto the clammy wall,
with such heat that fuses flesh into plaster
skinned and pink jaws of cheek and ear
just as envisioned, mollified with matter.
The obsessive tension of possession
famines my overextended knuckles,
reddening ravenous tips
clawing and bleeding into solid with desire.
A breath already drawn and stuck
laxens my mouth into dripping lips
with supple anticipation.
Your gaze is riveted to me
undistracted by the throb of predestination
flaring in your loins.
You remain unimpressed, a pacing pragmatism
reeling in explosive coolness,
polarizing this blinded beauty from behind.
To struggle is to surrender.
For you are already behind me
spreading fire through my limbs.
At once catalyzing my lascivious circuitry
with syncopated breaths, cogent grip
over my quivering synapses. Solid in waiting,
suspended sanguine, until you come,
convulsing in contradictory convictions,
the Marquis himself never inspired
Slowly and deliberately
Passes my tongue over your psyche.
Across bridged minds
Lust may swiftly pass.
Sneaking devil grins and blushing blunders
Purports the cages of formality
What magnificent actors!
We liars accepting passionless blows.
Building careful yellow castles
Encrusted with self-made mendacity.
I am begging: beware.
Low tide is forever a mere transience.
An incessant oscillation,
Incapable of anymore
Than soothing and smothering,
Stifling cell by cell.
The drift of endearment
May spare the foundation.
But even so,
Incontinent granule walls
Crumble beneath shattering moans.
Seize the vital cliffs!
Their swollen pools agitated
By the daunting images
Of your luscious locks
Ravishing my being.
In want of a core violation,
An opening of long ago cloaked wounds.
Into muddy pools of mortification;
Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez