Nipples roll like marbles
on my criss-crossed
upper arms you've tied
in front.
You grunt
as you press into me-
the blindfold never slips
and cries are rising
from a place
within
I cannot find again
when it is done.

But just at bed
and nearly dawn,
my Love
much later
when you're gone
the smallest trickle
leaks as I lean in,
fold back the eiderdown
and peel my bed for sleep-
sends one last shiver
through my pinkest parts.

I feel your breath
again give rise
to little hairs
upon my neck-
I wreck my soul
upon the rocks for you.
With final pulse
of vulvular beat
a secret
kind of unction
then,
completely
comes the calm.





Cat And Cream

I slide a baton
in and out, between the
softest parts of your inner
thighs.
Your legs are taut.
Feel the stick's
probe
beneath
your balls-

imagine
cords
preventing any sort of
staying by your hand
around the thing
that brings you
such a slow, white-knuckled ride.
It teases the sack, and brings

a sudden
tightening-

a spray
upon your chest
that arcs
your speckled cream
and I'm a cat
that's mewling now and sliding up.
My hair like whiskers that are
twitching for a treat. This witchy cat
flicks out her tongue. Steals every drop.
She licks you clean.





Caught

Steam
rises from the pot:
poem in a pressure-cooker
poised to skewer your lust has tossed
its last
adjective.

A red verb
ring around your cock,
words hiss. You feel the meltdown
coming from the tip of tailbone out
of belly hollow
to the glans
and then it stops.
As you howl, bent with love and shame,
the need for
now and
now and
now,

what jeweled pain
is this.
What fanned wings
of wanting.





Chenille

Chenille spread,
little tufts of yarn
make patterns on the backs of
my spread thighs, fleshy and real
on either side of your face. I feel the rasp
of whisker growth, the snorting bull-breath
through the nostrils: minotaur,
bent down to sup.

Pink look of
chandelier
that- if I stare- makes everything
up

at the edges. I stare
into light
while heat
is rising on my thighs
in squads of breath. Hot.
Wet.
The shock of roughened tongue touched
quicks.
Ignition.(fear) -somehow a sun is being born
and I am dying now
to everything.





The Finishing Cherry

There isn't a hole
not meant to be invaded
and that nether one is
asking for it.
When you're
ready to pop,
I'll plug the thing
and make you scream -aw, now, all messy, couldn't
hold your cream
but see there baby, what I mean?
Now let me lickyourballs...





Space Time Continuum

Stars are ghostlight
died,
but still
we see the spin and burn
and don't believe that what we see
we do not share at all.
We're seeing Time

passing

distance

traveled
far
so fast
it's yesterday tomorrow.
We borrow words
to winnow science, which leaves
poetry,
and some damn fool is calling
cock a doodle doo
upon this grave.

He is a poet
and he raises up the dead
and somehow, with a rite
he gives out
light
that's gone for good.





Couch Session

Innerscaping dream of life.
A breast, a breech,
a scream of lust.
Screen that dances with my Id,
giddy in its partner.
Silicon Sea for whom I'm Moon,
surfing where I hadn't dipped,
secret world of my own hacking
cracking at the skull of God.

Broken links of self I see.
Count them odd, the vulgar roam
Grand Mal Mardi Gras of web;
shown a mind I somehow cached
filled with pixel flick-and-flash
entering my great unknown.

Freud would have a field day.
Jung would call it home.





Ear Candy

There's nuthin
like the sucky sound
of pulled out penis,
moist right to the root-
adrip with
afterglow.

Forget about
your finger lickin good
and all the advertising
used to sell the things
the human heart will leap to hear,
that sound

is the one.





Elevator Thoughts

Smooth silvered doors swish closed.
The air is trapped and hush-
the only music
in my head
and bed
is not this quiet.

Eyes so shy
they're locked on floor,
or door or red light
numeral ascent.
I know I'm not alone-
I hear your breathing.

Man in a gray suit
smelling of cloves,
I lean and draw to you
like heat, not meaning to-
embarrassed
by my pheromones.
Afraid you'll see
the way I've willed
your tongue-
impossibly
tipping
toward
my-
O!
Hair on arms
an image I've stolen
from our ride, the scent of cloves
and thrilled awareness
as you brush
indifferent, trailing
testos
teronic
timpani-
and tweed and splendid
starch-I think.
You'd rough me up a bit.

I'd bite
-I think
I could.






Strained Fabric

You were sitting at your desk.
Your legs were splayed at first,
relaxed. The laugh lines curled
at corners- eyes and mouth-
details I find attractive.

Aftershave from morning
mixed with undertones
of 10 hour later musk
had stippled air
with teasing molecules
of underneath.
I stood and talked
and watched your
animation grow.

My nose was on the prowl
as I moved closer.
Close enough
to let you catch
the nipple rising
as I brushed my arm
against my breast
while making show of moving full
brown fall of hair away-
the better to see you
my dear.

Split second
look
was all it took
to disconcert.
Alert the limbic brain.

Those trousers
growing tighter
changed postition,
couldn't hide
that you had seen
inside my eyes
and found real peril there.
The eyes that caught my own
were smoking agates
- filled with fear
yet full consent.

It's only when I laughed
and turned away
that you looked down
and died
but not before I spied
your red discomfiture.

You've no idea
how often
when alone-
just that memory
can
TRIGGER
me...






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