Pointillism of pores

I’m sitting on our bed, watching the darkness creep across the street

Little cicadas children hatch in the roots of the trees to crawl up and I start to forestall a night of cream shrieks

out of my clothes, naked and known I wait silently anticipating

titillating

participating

the shown

I want your momentum, your dreamscapes, your flesh against mine

Sheath, shell and reap the kisses and the teeth you touch against mine. Deep inside me, heart beats like the calling, I hear this warm cicada night

Stars bloom my night orchid swoon, engorging like a harvest moon. Cicadas scream as we bloom

Upon my form of lyre, from which I do desire, comes the flanking crops

Up and too, into hear, pain into ecstasy, upon my rear

Purple, your work, draws it’s words

And now, from into your mounds to I give chase, for milk and honey tunes do I need to hear

Faces meet for a repast of lips, it’s a very nice trip, but oh what a trick

I feel your hand below my hip

Little footfall fingers walking across my soft pages, reaching my spine and then down to the other hand playing the next

Often one can feel you break the dam, only to find beavers build it again. Oftentimes I would probably feel anyone but you would fail to break mine so much, that the rupture would be better described as a flooded basement with creaky house attached, but it isn’t possible to be so blasé. I’m flooding everywhere, creaky house pouring like the rain

Down and through this all, my timely means to get to you is but not delayed. For sure as the flood does cease, I am willing it likely to come again and again

Then taste, a good thing inside my mouth, sitting down around a bout, I’m twisted sheets and tongue attached, into caves, crevasses and cracks

No area is to small for my place to drink, lick or eat, it’s all a better meal than ill have this week

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