til death steals…

cannot fathom such touch anymore
its meaning slit and deleted 
gone 
dissipated
desire
in the h0urs, days, months
lost track 
what is like anymore
in between the heat of thighs
moans and sighs loitering no longer
her youth stolen
her prime unwanted 
do they find pleasure in wasting her
no understanding of their inner working 
perhaps she has known all along
the poetry of being used
tossed aside
wasted 
unwanted
unloved
so offensive is she? deserving?
and yet she burns evermore
burn baby burn
Til death upon death 
steals this soul’s fire 

ice cream not my first choice…

Sometimes
you need 
an escape
such as 
mind-blowing 
sex
or Thai food
or even
something simple
like a cup of 
jamocha almond 
fudge ice cream…

had to settle 
for the latter

was not  
my first choice

9:46 am confession…just another useless waterfall

I stand here questioning
every word of my slient voice
written to the heart of pages

what if my mouth is permanently numb
And I can’t skin you with my tongue

I claim to have this capacity to love
But what if it’s a lie? 
What if I am a lie?
What if I am not real ?
Am I only pretend?
just a fucked up aberration 
or typicality 
unwanted middle aged drab
aging perfumed water
my head spins straight to my core
my heart breaks every minute
in every beat
62 this last minute
splits in two chambers
or eight
Or 64
Unmeasurable hairline fractures

a two headed monster 
what if its always been the dominate Me 
repeated play of hurtful things

I keep seeking self torture
so very little recovery anyway 
so just hurt me
and hurt 
And hurt 
me over again 

never really have I been loved
a proper beautiful thing
only golden threads turn to rust
crushed in hands of would be lovers

Am I this unfeeling dumb bitch 
undeserving
sick and twisted
for my indiscretions   
All those years ago
weak and fettered 
lost girl 
finding and thinking
love between her thighs

how have I become this nothing of force 
just shattered mess of dark red glass
picking up droplets from the dirt
sandy grit having changed my shape 
my edges unable to fit together

incapable blend
sweet wicked berry juice
inproper fraction sips
incomplete whole

what actions
measures have I taken
keep swallowing
to seek and self destroy

Please don’t do it 
don’t destroy
I beg 
I beg 
my pauper cries out
A beggar for something
not ever certain
anymore

I am only good to avoid
as I hold stick glue
trying adhere substance to water

everything of my being
is really unremarkable 
for their absence tells me so

this dark breath sighs
and life I let run over me 
surrender 
let it interpret my outcome

take me
notice or not
numb or too emotional 
love or hate
what am I anyway
but a twitch easily flicked away
a decayed rose 
green thorn inbetween 
third and fourth rib
perhaps fire dying 
and water stilling
try to burn to rise
fail to drown to feel

everything
I am or not
as ever uncertain

yet even more so now
split and splayed 
fileted 
before
you

feel every fraction; every cm of silence…

have found
such words
felled sweetly  
upon my heart
I gather them
all of the small things
with fervor
and lust
my horde of poets
I cemented you 
in my depth 
I am weighted
with upreplenished love
and now
how each of you choke
therefore turn toward 
a silent walk
step among your wreckage 
runaways
of eraser shavings
streams of black ink
smeared impulsive words
left me awashed with tears
slipping into cracks
I now, a tomb sealed 
feeling every fraction
of every cm of silence 
with what love 
they once whispered
upon the pores 
of my skin

sheer tranquility of fire…

entirely impossible
to mask 
this deeper part
heavily veiled
yet sheer
tranquility of fire

daughter of iniquity
no amout of color
bleaches
this stain of 
dark red flames

I confess
more of me 
saturated
killer red
the world
doesn’t see

do you…

collide 
into this 
willacy
this sensual 
backbone
of provisional
sin

I am no other way
comparable 
visit without 
self limitations  
or guilty
infliction
of denial

under this skin
no tormenting game
nor beautiful lie
substantance to not waste
a giver; intentional breath
undeniablely
fragile in
love and life
 

sensuous art…(part 2)

This is part 2 of the bedtime story I wrote quite a few weeks ago…enjoy! You will find a link to part 1 below

Of course as he is winding the rope
his deft fingers graze my rising nips
and softly feather along my skin.
His mouth leaves a trace of delicate kisses
in the places where the knots are to lay. 
The desire is evident as he the artist
caresses his canvas, but as any artist
perhaps understands, there is this need driving one to create perfection. The feel of the piece, timing, rapt attention essential for art to become living. His art happens to be the weaving of rope. He holds his medium with careful deliberation of placement. Perfectly  aligned to produce pleasure yet prolong satisfaction. He is an artist in anticipation, with a full vision formulating in his mind. He dare not rush, for delay, a slight hesitation creates ache. All part of his ploy to raise awareness to skin, watch my flesh come alive under his command. 

My lover inspects his art. Testing each knot…each finger and knuckle slipping underneath the rope to test its tension. 
Of course this sends sensations along my body and with each slow deliberate tug, the vibrations grow stronger. Its not long before my chest starts heaving, becoming more breathless in waiting for his touch. Quiet moans escape through my lips. My eyes look to his as one rises, deep throated. I see fire light behind his eyes. My moans are to his liking, encouraging him to move more painstakingly slow. His mouth suppresses a wickedness that will come out later, of that I am certain.

He is careful in his inspection and I so eager, so willing to let his hand slide up my thighs, slowly begin to open for him. 
There is one very carefully placed knot that must be tried. I am splayed on the bed, aching, waiting for his fingers to tug, to inspect but it does not come and my ache only increases. I find his eyes wandering again. He is searching me with wildfire burning in his gaze. I, watching him as he admires his art. So delicious is each smoldering glance between us. I feel the thrumming, a throbbing heat as the knotted rope lays snug against my sex. He knows what he has created. A firestorm! And it is building, yet intentionally delayed. There is a beautiful city beyond our private walls to first explore…

to be continued…

you can find the first post here;
Sensuous art…(part 1)