She felt the living thing within her
twitch and tense and
cry out through that
wry mouth her mouth encompassed,
speaking a salty language that made her
blush and which she
struggled to comprehend.
I’m wrong, I think. But this poem makes me view an orgasm as a religious experience, where the sounds that escape are spoken in tongue - unintelligible to all but God.
i was just sitting here, tasting myself, wondering what was on your mind
(image from http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com/thumbs/34/a2/finger,hot,lips,mouth,sexy-34a201a475dbdab25247dc5c876822f9_h.jpg)
i *am* running
running out of patience, out of time, out of … hope
but i am not running away from you
image from fiyaasz.deviantart.com
my lips don’t mean stop, they’re telling you to stay
(image from http://jasonchristopher.com/)
this is how i originally conceived this poem. i let that view die on the first post. i like it this way better. Happy Valentine’s Day ….
hopeless
maybe these shoes, this dress, this scent
will make you pause …
… just long enough
to see how smart i really am
oio asked: 'the image you just posted was perfect - i love the play of colors with the dess and the background.' I thought so too. If you click the Source link, there are some other really lovely photos in Brooke Shaden's Flickr photostream.
thanks! and thanks for posting such eye-catching images. i think i get your avatar. :)
A moment, a thought, a glance
Inaction an impossibility
An alley, a car, fresh air
Reacting to vitality
A kiss, a gasp, a moan
Drenched in perspiration
Position, pressure, force
Begging for penetration
A thrust, a slap, a grasp
Holding on for life
A pause, a grunt, a yelp
I’ve wrapped my legs tight
An explosion, a response, release
He makes a quick retreat
Undressed, exposed, alone
I know I shouldn’t cheat
A touch, a scent, a taste
Bathing in the danger
Deep, damp, deserving
*He* was a perfect stranger
Spring when it comes will call me
as it always does with
wriggles of desire and self-doubt,
niggling aches of curiosity and
nostalgia, above all with the smells of
time-fused fecundity, like the
rioting vernal clock on the hills above my
boyhood bed overwhelming the
docks’ ship-oil pungency, urging me to
cast off, make steam, dump the charts,
live, love, fuck, explore
foreign soils or the
strange secrets of the
next street.
he is a beast, this one! i hope i live on the next street
