desire

HOPE FULL

Your love is like a winter icecream
and my funeral pyre tongue
knows only to lap it up.
Snow forms in my eyes all the while,
though I left my shutters open to fan the flames.

A warm breeze still dances its way
along the finery of my deepest thoughts,
sidestepping icepick arrows – the
drawbridge of kindling that spills from your throat garden.
Impossible not to swallow,
yet the aftertaste burns like a forest fire;
all the drowning promises now an ocean’d moat for your castle walls.

A drawn bridge might just as well be a goodbye on this canvas,
but the artist within me paints in colour.

I HOPE WE MAKE IT

I have no tolerance for hope. Hope survives
on leftovers and unwilling loss: a soiled casket of
emptiness for every six feet of paragraph
it wades behind. Hope stuffs itself between the words
and the meaning, loudly camouflaged by
gambling and cigarettes, declining to altercate but
lathered by a demand to be seen. It shuns you,
but needs you desirable, a voyeurist: a
lap dancing ghost to keep it current.
Hope is a pimp
and you whore yourself to keep it primed,
shedding your skin like a puree of missing passports,
onion tears soaking sensibility after raw
sensibility, riding hope faster than your hips can keep up,
because, and after all,
there has to be a better place than this.
Time is just an expanse to harness,
a mount for crossing –
and you must wager everything,
from soul to sex
to grind it hard to a halt.

SHOW UP

Show up
with pieces of my name at your chest
and I will promise you
that all its letters
in any order
will write you through this fire
melting both our hearts

SMALL

I am the starved sanctuary for unformed words and
by I pass the feverish wind that recipes its way
beyond my teeth to mix another spoon of
awkward with a sifted pound of nervous laughter,
folding and kneading a cavernous desire
that piecemeals its softened voice
into any semblance of oral freedom
my selfishly shy lips will dare untangle.

SIGHTED

should you
perhaps blindly
show an interest

this
errantly battering storm within
may cease its embryonic dance

and betroth itself
finally
in your capture

WHIP

You are my story
and I escape within these pages
of your unmapped strength
through pauses
and the violence
that collects each letter:
another lash I want
and need
but don’t deserve

I NEVER GIVE UP

Why now, at this peak?

the one we climbed like we were foraging,
like the treasure was ours, and
like we were owed the magic;

the one we promised to ourselves,
like the challenge spoke to our needs
– like spooning, and completeness –
like the familiar sound of Soulmateship;

the one we both ate hungrily
like cheesecake and strawberry sauce,
like viking sex and the sound of rain,
like the walls called for our skin;

the one we privately rode
like thunder and like history,
like couch kissing at 3am,
like the pre-cum that belongs on my lips;

the one our lives changed for,
like losing everything to win,
like the years mattered more now –
like purpose was our new team;

the one we physically yearned,
like this distance made us lovers,
like the words we longed to speak,
like our eyes smiling in perfect silence;

the one we learnt to master,
like the Gods of old had promised,
like synchronicity was our call,
like the prophecies had written us;

the one our dreams showed us,
like we undressed our karma,
like it was destiny we could touch,
like we had angels for our guides;

the one we paved and craved
like the path was suddenly clearer,
like the bumps were sensual touches,
like the signposts contained our names.

Why now, at this peak?

the one we fall from, both alone,
like we have forgotten we had a bond,
like our chemistry now parries –
like our freedoms matter not.

MAGNETIC OCEANS

Her honey’d hole a wet, wet dream,
her liquid gold a silky stream where
sliding thrusts were mounted, hot,
and arching bodies dared not stop;
where moments flowed into the next
and both were drowned in comfort sex
and eyes were riding each one’s soul –
his quest for freedom her only goal

And rather than come up for air
this fiery passion sank them there,
(as both an anchor, twined like rope,
and locked in pelvic gyroscope)
her swollen thighs around his waist,
her nails embedded, tongues embraced –
and fishing for that final taste
with every touch, in every place

Fused as one with melting cores,
(her curling toes demanding more)
his urgent need to plunge her rightly
sealed them closed with hearts bound tight
and all around them
walls of water washed their sins
in quickening waves that locked them in
with swats and spanks
and gentle yanks and saucy stares
while skin-to-skin and hand to soaking hair

Like rolling tide to rocky shore,
(her legs thrown wide, his pelvis sore)
the crash and grind of karmic ties
were deep explored and fast revived
(with whispered greed they came alive)
awash with dirty unrestraint
they thrived, unreined, with fate to blame,
their pulsing needs through every vein
infused as one and charged by same:
her wild release on which he came, an ocean
calling out her name

WHERE THE MAPS WON’T

Journey across time with calendar wings
moments packed like spare t-shirts
and extra socks
passport in one hand and an
empty notebook pencilled by thought

its white void the clouds
that fuel your glorious lungs

Honeymoon with more sky and fewer limits
bound at the ankles by freedom
and gift-wrapped in chance
the fresh juice of destiny
your north in every glass of south

and a stomach full of butterflies
to take you to places the maps won’t

NORTH SOUTH (HAIKU)

Magnetic vision,
quite the purpose for searching:
two hearts finding one

PIECE BY PIECE

Bit by bit I’ll build you
until you forget you have no form

Dream by dream I’ll make you
as I pour your cold to warm

I’ll catch you in my blooming petals;
soft, the ground, my arms will be

Piece by piece I’ll fill you
yet, in truth, you’re filling me

Night and day I’ll ripen you
and grow you where you stand

Strong and proud I’ll mould you
while, in truth, it’s by your hand

Time will pass in moments
long in pause, and in-between…

yes…

My thoughts alone might write you
but, in truth, this need writes me

THE SOLD SOUL

It slips
– this new surrender –
past the rusted locks and caution signs
and crumbling roads of cul–de–sacs
and vacant lots
and open tracks
to freedom:

where conundrums play and secrets huddle
and bodies lie
and youth decays
– retired past expired days –

Engraved in time
cocoons and shells and nests are hung
and quartered for a chance at love:

the way ahead receding,
half behind and part enslaved
(a mask of promise worn from sale of soul to lucid grave)

And
– like an avalanche –
it falls in quick pursuit, this
multiverse of filthy guise
with liquid paths and dangerous eyes
and ruby coloured blushing cheeks
where
every lover’s heart of sponge or stone
descends to meet
while
heating for another touch
beneath the fraying sheets

And all the while
– in haste, not glory –
time, undressing moments as it passes,
flies away,
incarnate instead as flesh (again)
with wings that only beat
to re-transcend and scar
and mend
in pounding, swollen, rhythms
C
L
A
W
I
N
G
for the warmth of distance
**ROARING**
for a hurried end

So,

spaced between the
t i c k s and t o c k s
of darting pain
and thrusting cocks,
of cunts aroused, abused, and shamed,
a silence, near, deploys again:

the ever-caged
and emptied song
of lustful shame
and mouths and tongues
declining, fast at last
to go
from whence it came
to soak the mind
and strip the soul
and blur the lines
of time and toll

buried

in surrender, whole

APEX

In the peak of a moment
– at the very point of desirous recognition –
one exists in the present
only to fade into the stillness of
hungry impression;
to fade into the memory
of what might never be again.

Temptation: one’s new master of control.

THOUGHT #243

Desire fuels the starving spark of presence.

TO PAUSE

To Pause

Abandon me
so I may postpone
this satisfaction
and
for an irrelevant time alone
subsist on nothing
but my starving need
for your fulfillment

DRENCHED

I soaked myself
in your pleasure:
sounds
dripped like images
from your lips.

No sooner had I drained you
to fill myself,
your half-expired
body came to life again

and, I,
already bloated,
asked for more.

STEPS

I walked slowly
to spend more of eternity
with you, and

when you turned to
usher me closer
what you didn’t realise
was that I was
already
there

MY PASSING

My Passing

Come lay with me
so that I
with any luck at all
pass into the night
– yours, being the last face
I shall ever desire to see.

LOVE RAPTURE

Love Rapture

my fingers
trace your outline;
every
hardened wave
and liquid curve
the perfect shape
to precisely enclose
my rapturous heart

JIGSAW

part of me
is lost
in a jigsaw puzzle
where the image
i am putting together
is looking more
and more
like you

COMMUNICATE

both high
– desirous –
in the space
between
our connection

waiting
with a nervous dream
for the red line
to be crossed

NIGHT LIFE

somewhere
beyond the outskirts of my dreams
a Sentry
distant
– marking time –
watches as my soul escapes
eloping while I sleep
– awakened –
with my fictional
and very real
desires

MUCH TO MY DESPAIR

this ice cream love
– sweet –
and filled with cold desire

drips

through the hole
in my sugared cone

the very thing that
once had held my love within
is now partaking
in the letting go
of its own contents

HONEYBEE AND FLOWER

Opening my soul,
the petals of its
soft, pink, silken flesh
become a mirror,
beckoning all and any
to the gateway of my swollen, naked heart.

And oh,
how does the honeybee suckle,
I remember,
approaching with a mask of raw intention,
innocent, but for the ravaging purpose
it knows only, yet again, to – here – ensue

. . . and so it does.

My blushing fortress sways and tempts:
a feathered
floral
nudity, as,
in you float,
oh honeybee,
in pregnant pause
to share my perfumed freedom
as I blossom
with your tongue inside my lap.

Crush me not, but leave me torn
– yet, just as gentle.

Your organic levitation swells my fancy.

THOUGHT #428

Without it, desire is just a memory that one forgets.

WRITER STIMULUS

Your perfect lips
speak volumes,

an outline of their own

creating a story
of a thousand possibilities
straight from the mouth
of the beast,
the hidden tongue
of the devil,
and the mind
(digesting this author)

– the mind –

of
a
GOD

Your eternally paged fiction
stands alone,
(unseating its writer)
awaiting more images

– square jaw, naked mouth –

– bedroom lips –

to express the next chapter
of my printed vision
processed by a
hungry and
adulterous
need.

THOUGHT #350

There’s no desire like yesterday.

TO WANT ONLY SOME OF IT ALL

The sometimes
of the most of my always
ensnares me
in its often trap
and though by I pass
in silence
I cannot blind
the all seeing knower
that fondles me
with sweet maybe impressions
and tickles my soul
with partial bliss
and otherworldly
here not there
allowable temptations
that only so far
have shaken my distant senses
with semi-translucent delirium
more often than not ever
but much more than
an inexcusable
not quite nearly enough!