Wednesday, November 19, 2014

The Growing Kiss

Suddenly, the ice blossoms of your frosty wolf beard crack
and needle towards the dead wood of your neck. I love your
bark with pores that host my nectar.

Mists of frozen brides named Jill, with blue lips,
want the groom.

Winter water is rarely kind, like the Winter witches.
They allow Spring to cling on their necks, insulating
their avalanche breasts. Their lips are blue, too.

A necklace of wolves traps your ice sheet of ferns.
We name the leader, Jack Frost.

We follow a morning bed path with temple overhang trees.
Our deep and nesting steps palpably hunt the birds of Sagittarius
as we each decline a quiver of arrows. Behind us, a flat basin of
sticks swallow our snowy prints. We want to blossom on Neptune
where there are no hooked bill predators, no especially long stooping
drinkers. No thighs of black feathers. We want our nuptials on Neptune.

The tumbleweeding of your ice crystals never plateau. 
And, you are fascinating as
fuck.


In the southern forelegs of galactic grass you invite me

to nurture myself under the shoulder of an archer drawing his bow.
You are my archer and I can bite into that flesh of you like a ripe red apple.
A concave nebula, the arch of your arm, curls around me like a lagoon of
warm stars. We are two star systems rimming with no circular crater motions.
We flood into each other like moon rays trespassing over flash frozen lava.
We find wanted minerals in each other and with no lilac-breasted shields,
cone our forelegs into each other.

A lava rope milks us tighter to each other and my womb finds your long
limbwalk and we make love at a climbing camp. Stripping naked amongst
wild fig trees, sometimes our animalness cloaks our ruthlessness. Never
misbehaving in our snowy grass, the birds of Sagittarius cronk like Ishtar’s
ghost daughters playing euphoniums. Jack Frost preys on their thrusting hips.

Suddenly, we fall in love.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Taming of Authority

My stunning maharishi requested me to sleep in her vampire casket all days
of September and October alongside her brilliant novel writing mind.  She writes
of vampire lineage and it is my turn with her and I know she’s just closed her eyes
by the cadence of her breath.

Last night she shoo’d me to fly out, upon waking.
She whispered, “Go soothe the branded chest that you’ve seared your name onto.”

I find you, again and
I perch right on your cock with your wrists in cuffs and your neck in collar and
trace the Tracy.  It only makes my desire stronger to know we’ve shared
this fondness from the times of bizarre
Pharaohs when males were
branded.

“Write about it,” she coos.  “I know you are the dawn to decadence,” and
she flutters back to her lair and I am lured back to your charred chest in fascination.

I am a piranha of self-discovery and I would never tame your authority.
Piranhas never see the dead prey in front of them, they like the trail
of the alive.  Exotic fish traders often misidentify their force.
They are the Pisces.

It is a Tracy dawn and time to swoop back to my stunning maharishi.
She reminds me to be the exotic fish trader and to escort the
piranha back to
water.

I feel like healing.
C
lose your eyes.

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.
Boom.

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
wet.

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

Ostinato

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
instead.

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

again.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

cakeholes

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

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
you.