Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Naked Navy

Your wilderness is nothing more than my eternal navy sky.
Make your bed in my golden Savannah grass where there are no thirsting temple rules.  A lioness bed is my curvy body and while you are licking, I will smile.
You hold the secret of my thunder.  The secret is that the stars must shift.
That shift creates the boom and everyone longs for the boom.
Are you ready; we are the shifters holding the cords to the primordial stars.
The same charismatic cords that move the stars to crack the boom.
Let’s paint each other in naked navy and we can nourish the stars.
My mouth waters to taste you and me.  This is me when you are my wilderness.
In naked navy.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

sleepy madness

Hope served me a deep pillow for my sleepy madness.  You know this;
an attendant held a silver tray and we heard chimes in this late night wind
of a late night world.  Like the brutal swing and fall of each wager
between you and I that tonight will be the coldest night of the year,
so too the polar bears snuggle by the fire.  Or do they?

You know this; telling someone you are in love with them.  Standing nude
as fuck in words, in worlds.  Fuck.  That is the moment you take back any sort
of king status  you offered with a pillow and thank the sweet cold earth holding
your feet that there are more princes.   The polar bears snuggle a strange bluespruce, instead.  Dear King, you will never exhaust me.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

wet chin

I like watching you wipe your wet chin
after you go down on me. You know when
your brows soften and your hands fall across my
inner thighs. And an image burns into your brain for
later.  And you look to the skies.

We sweat like mother fuckers and my head falls back, blissfully.
My mind feeds into the primal pulse of promising myrtles.
I know you like the titty shimmy and my shoulders get
a primal bit too.  The same tits you squish when
you’re on top.  I like to thrust into you and my
hips hammer yours and life gives us an
aromatic gift that is

When will you fucking recognize
I am writing about you.
You are sleepy in a lover’s poem
and I thank you every day for never
giving up.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013


I am a fucking poet
…with tits like Isis’s daisies,
fragrant and open to these moonbeams.
Lying in my bed staring down to see the One,
a midnight spinning of Metallica of course.  I wish
I was referring to somebody but tonight it is a song.
The first riff reels up my nakedness while
I ruminate with no Sufi poets of all
the times I never was the One,
Metallica can spray in mind
louder than the hurting
thoughts.  Always her

I am a fucking poet
…with a pussy like Astarte’s temple,
magical and nurturing to these moonbeams.
Lying in my bed staring down at the rejection that
spins a midnight wish of course, play the One again.
Warriors, travelers, and theoreticians embody
the second riff reeling up my nakedness and
I rescue myself with Sufi poets of all
the times I never was the One,
Metallica can spray in mind
louder than the lonesome
thoughts.  Second place


Saturday, May 11, 2013


Your face is a kind sufi collectanea.
You are no cloistered monk
waiting on
groundling guitar

I am impersonating an overdramatic caricature of every mortal at the moment
and you are not included. Could you be any more heavenly?
Your eyes are the midnightish black I want to stare into
when I cum.

I am pompous to offer you these etheric guitar strings, newly purchased
and would you amplify our amour which has not been fingerpicked yet.

It’s graceful love.
Cithara is my Roman womanly body that you now have new strings for.
The morality of my palace is in your hands.
How’s that for warlock love.
Our skin is flushed with
united desire.
Our cakeholes lick each other.
This icing is bigger than lust.

The Infinite strums a chorus that we have never known and
that is how we will know.   Eromania.
And it feels right.
I am thinking of

Saturday, May 4, 2013

i found you

The budding and evolving soil of a warm May morning
introduces your new life.

It is a bottomless breath and I find you on
my doorstep.  You smell like earth where the sprouts are trying and
your valour is a wild violet beanstalk, revealing its inside with a spellbinding
new colour.  You are not ornate and I want you at the novel burst.   There is soil
everywhere and your hands sprawl on the soft skin of my thighs.  The only time we
know is the hourglass that is my body.   We listen as the fresh ocean lobsters steam

in the cauldron and their squealing is nothing more than air escaping
their shells, they are already dead you know.  They do not cry. 

I am now ready to know your heart, introduce me to your aquarium
chest where I can spin unreservedly like a rejoicing mermaid.   A halo encircles

us and we find each other having slipped from land to water.   It is alien star water
and our home is light years away but for now we can just get to know each

Wednesday, April 24, 2013


My blanket held tight to your bed space.
I know you left to inhale a few breaths of
our afterlife.  Fuck, I love you and your snoring
lion eyebrows.  You were panting over there and I listened.
Your heart told me to listen.

Thanks for looking after my gods while I was away.
I know the roses and all the whittled woods and the
soundless cheers struck the night slumber back to my life,
with you.  I feel your knuckle on my clit.

My loins pulse for you.
We both hunger like mother fucking lovers.
The Callapania Queen wears her dandelion crown
rejoicing our sex from her tall ship that sails in and out
of my home.  Your tongue is a sailor and I am your ocean.

My aura filled the corners of my cold house.
I watch longtails sail in and through
and then back out.  You were never
really here but I know you will be

Until then, I’m sailing.