The Summons

I am a museum.
There flows under me a raving light
down the ravine,
brave bunny.

My palette shifts.
It has rotated
on Nature’s turntable
with Time-
turning and pausing,
perfusing and dotting
other canvases.
However grateful
but irrelevant,
with its bliss.

Finally this most potent elixir
comes alive,
aroused
by the portrait of
you kneeling over my shrine,
you straddling
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.

Flavors alchemize
infusing flesh with new life.
The brightest colors
ever tasted-
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
to me
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.

 

Visits: 66

misery

misery

Misery
roams deserted alleys.
Is gorgeous
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
then retreat.

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

Visits: 227

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 –– peregrina (the rover)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 –– peregrina (the rover)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

she keeps choosing the lot of them
who stretch carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain.

the lovers who would be,
yet never will lie with she
drift sideways before eyes, a stream
of misbegotten waifs, once men, now geminis.

if only they were hustlers
pinching hipbones for dollars
or pungent sailors flooding her
furrowed welcome mat with callers.

but no,
there is he
who hides behind his gritty teeth,
and there is she who shutters at her sigh-
he who gets it up, then fondles her all awry.

“why oh why?” says she, in shambles,
replacing her nugget with two-fold flies.
when other others would be fierce
and praise God for the chance,

the innocuous illusory
strangles on his own artifice
his disappointing middle tones,
her quiet venefice.

for when she polishes off the day
and he phones in sick, sneaking groans
escape her crevice,
tick   tock   tick.

back to john she’ll slink
to the bed of home,
to biting lips and parting hips,
her amplified hours to think.

she’s bespectacled by night,
fogged-in by day,
refuses to take her midnight mangy
out to play.

for mangy’s an overly unctuous mess
malignantly pawing away at,
awaiting the preliterate
dreams of too much to confess.

at three in the morning,
foreshadowed comings
impale restless futility
on her own Eratos,
primeval virility.

in purpled shadows,
she gnaws away at Lorca’s feet,
at the pernicious stanzas,
landscapes, Andalusian meat.

breathless in robes of satin,
she’s a helix in nomadic haze,
a frustrated flesh
impressing onto bedroom mirrors
her flaming maze.

the reminiscent coalesces
with pale harmonies
re-wetting the slivers of doubt,
her vagabond body regresses,
sinless,
into violet clouds and tears.

with record player rippling
spinal hips curve to spleen
lightly, a coiling eroticism doubts
the perfect fledgling caprice
and finally,
feckless desires decease.

she stops forgetting who she is,
what her madness is about
a priori, a lamplit virginal,
impetuous in drought.

“where’s mangy?” she slurs,
“mangy, come out to play.”
stays hidden between legs
devout fertility endlessly purrs,
clawing away at indecipherable prey.

she’s clear about the meaning of sex,
the escape from rollicking deception
into cherished abandons
swimming in conception.

yet the others are not-
the ones she has chosen,
and foolishly embarked on with soul,
are drowning in preconception,
sycophantic pricks, half frozen by control.

to them, she’s swimming in madness,
tasting of precarious delight.
they see only a delectable obscurity
of precocious smells and precipitate sight.

oh, how the keeper of mangy
consecrates fevered hours to think,
yet night after night, one must shrink.
leave alone with wakefulness
its empty violet shell, her ink.

she dreams of her limestone lizard
in soft snow moonlight,
lifting his lethargic peace to her palms
sniffing and licking in like procession,

feasting on roasted heart, dripping blue love
over their alms.

her dragon has forgotten
broken chains with buried lovers
left in deserts past, it seems,
miseries lost, traced over forever
by the didactic banks of salt and sand
…..she dreams.

night after night,
the honesty of well-oiled seams
debates the covenants of love,
choosing to stretch

night after night,
carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain, and thus

night after night,
finds herself always,
and again
alone
with aurora,
keeping stock
for indeterminate bliss.

peregrina leave, dismiss.
mangy come, exist.

painting by Gia

Visits: 161

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.5 ––– “all the rage” (a proposition)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.5 ––– “all the rage” (a proposition)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Jocular,
somber,
transcendent–

like a cat
wandering along sill,
eyeing the moon
with wide yellows
and long jowls;
you bleed.

Perch perch.
The Ninth Symphony
crawls into crashing sycophancy-
but only inside your head,
and in the flap flap
of domestic curtain ropes,
golden for you.

Die die.
Snowy Brooklyn hood
beckons
the peninsula’s lusty line
with wind bustling through porches.
Lady Manhattan, stoically xenophobic,
lies still beneath her cloak.

Prospect Park sleeps, as good as dead
hides the sleeping life
in her pillowy bed-
the hipster’s last
premature domestication.

I had a dream once,
this night in fact,
of sitting still
with pomegranate juice
rolling down my chin,
and of little bliss roller coasters
climbing up my brain.
               Somber,
               transcendent,
               fortifying–
ejaculate.

photo by Gia. Prospect Park, Brooklyn. 2004.

Visits: 267

last resorts

last resorts

In seasons we are, little but ourselves
straining our strangers through mirrors,
and emerging again, as neat shards of retractable dust.

We poof, we pout, we paint.
And still we end up looking the same,
at the legends of same, in the blood of same,
from the heartbreak of same.

Sometimes the nights move into days
before we have the chance to reconsider
our actions, our wealth, our skin.
Motives slide into decisions.

When we do evolve, our skirts billow
with the freshness of reflection.
Nights travel without distress, malingering under shadowy gauntlets
of childhood bliss, of mountainous duress, of the sensory caress.

Passing in and out of breath, we sleep
with more awareness than we ever had before.
For our souls, because we want to create.

Visits: 95

Soul Fluid

Soul Fluid

I wake up to you, my everymorning brew,
the image of your heated arms.
I tumble into sleep for you, my eternalnight pacifier.
I thirst for you, my essential soul fluid.

I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour your love
each and every precious moment I am granted,
for your presence to enlighten,
handfeed my creative pony.

My mane obscures your process,
keeping it behind stained glass
and just distanced enough
to satiate my always illusion of not knowing.
You substantiate my essential mythology,
giving of your ashes as fuel
with your purpose.

I meditate upon you
that is, to God, to the surrender of the universe
and all that is my truth beauty, that is ours,
and which is sought for by all,
and naught to be attained.
It cannot be, in living or dying;
the oneness of us it not to be understood,
but to be cherished, by all that is good.

It is in simplicity that I love you.
The only way that I can.
More and more through every molecule.

Feign acquiesce
for you, my essential soul fluid.
I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour.

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez

Visits: 20

the elixir

the elixir

Winding nights of life infuse our burgeoning blood
with confounded needs and unfounded insecurities.
A neat titration yesterday,
dripping sapphire desire into fidele base.
Tonight magenta clouds bubble through
my cylinder, begging for mutation, for your beaker of molten jazz
to saturate, adulterate, reiterate our implicit bondage.

 

June 2003

 

Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke

 

Visits: 49

You

You

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 
such
wicked devotion.

 

Visits: 18

throb

throb

In our decadent cradle of human entwinement,
I find my release from worldly things.
Your entrance opens the gates of ecstasy
as you probe my deepest cavity,
surging your life force into me.

I see nothing tangible-
Only the mythical creatures
swirling around us,
splashing us with brilliance.
Shifting shadows of spiritual forms
that merge with us.
In darkness and in light.

I hear nothing audible-
Only the primal moans that emerge from our depths
and the coursing of blood;
Mine, yours, the heavens.
My senses edge into that new dimension
Unattributable to the orbs
Unattainable by mere orifice.

I taste myself on your lips
and with your essence heating my breath
I plunge my tongue into the wetness of your mouth,
thrusting into it as if it was my own flowing chasm.

Our sex combines into an irreplicable elixir,
my tongue becoming its own entity.
It seems to think,
that it can meet your very soul.
Yes, my own slithering snake begs,
like my writhing body,
for your all-encompassing ofference.
I have taken you into me
As my self-devouring need dictates.

I cannot resist the carnal abandon.
I am hopeless in the face of your love.
and if you dare set your fiery gaze into me,
the final wall will crumble into the wayside.

I am yours
I am yours, throbbing as I do
Only for you.

Visits: 17

el cielo

el cielo

The kingdom divinely promised,
centuries before my conception,
for twenty-two years, appeared
only as a shadow invitation–
bewitching, through smoke walls
and silken mirrors.

Ropes of gold led the way
loosely fashioned about my wrists.
Threads of knowledge, taste, and experience–
each spun for the purity
of its own vital fabric.

Churning emotions arouse
internal tides, awash
with yearning.

The wonders I have seen,
and unearthly pleasures tasted
weigh heavily on my soul,
the soul of the seeker.

So said, perpetually in flight
until she dips her soul in Paradise.
Coated with trembling ecstasy
in the least expected of days
a land of treasures,
a man of pleasures.

Oh, the magnanimous announcement,
generally reserved for chartered ears.

Here, now erect, it portrays us.
It betrays us. It’s the continents again.

We are battered
but ultimately unshaken
by the chattering of the masses.
Unafraid to forage twisted foliage.

That winding verbosity of
two strands that lay together
awaiting cerebral rejection
but instead finding spiritual unification.
If the latter is to be,
our two life forces will fold into each other.

Becoming twisted
into
the tango of soul.

 

Visits: 16

façade

façade

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
To fade.

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.
Washed over
Into muddy pools of mortification;

Retreat.

 

December 2000

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez

 

Visits: 59

Linguist

Manipulate me with subtle language.
Embrace it, divulging the prosaic lie
Lingering on the salty summer ridge-
the carnal threshold searing from my thigh!
A warm serpent burrows inside my mind
As it lights a fire, caressing the strait.
Imploring breaths cajole a willed grind
Dripping fire into the rivets we create.
Along a lethargy of meaning, to
A snarled torrent of scurrilous bliss.
It unfolds unto jaded veins anew,
Seeping out in blankets of catharsis.
The coupling of such drives echoes the heartbeat-
As the fate which offers not vista retreat.

Visits: 24