floating and leaving no trace
go ahead and make me wait
i’ve got the patience of job
tied up in a bindle stick
over my shoulder
i can bust it out whenever
but i know you like me
impatient, eager
like ice melting off
a fingertip
my jaw clenches shut
and i breathe through
my nose because
if i open my mouth
there’s no telling
what part of your body
i will target first
——
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 22
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here lies lust
whose blood has
turned to rust
decaying bones
a powdered dust
remember the fire
in his veins
bore you higher
than any snow-capped
mountain spire
what an art
was seduction
the saddest part–
he had no
beating heart
——
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 3
Check out these sites:
we walk and i place my
hands through you
as if you are a column of smoke
after all, blues skies are just
an effect of
rayleigh scattering
i’m waiting for a hologram
of you that is more
solid, fleshy and yielding
i want to see my fingers
sink into your skin
i want to make shadows on you
your skin is a sin
or at least
invites to me sin
(if there is such a thing)
all i know is
hell’s flames
can’t be as hot
as your breath on my neck
i ache for your milky skin
less dress
please
raw and pink
together we shine
we must worship
above and below
my lust is no longer
a trickle
and i feel you against
my palms
straining against/with me
i’m a goddamned train
that refuses to
arrive on time
the schedule is trash
fit to line
bird cages
if we were made of paper
then getting close to me
would cause us both
to burst into flames
ashes are good
drunk on chocolate milk
we eat honey
play pink and blue and
pant on the moon
with lust
——
cry, luscious goddess
lather us with sweaty summer worship
these breasts–smooth, languid, meat
–no
a thousand frantic lickings
the fast water must bare you
mad blood
red chocolate
crush my lust, my storm of a need
——
for
Elusive Trope
Magnetic Poetry Saturday Challenge
And a bonus line:
i want to be a cartographer
when i grow up
although only a grown up ought to say
that he wants to chart every curve
every hill
every slope
of you
the map is not the territory they say
but i refuse to create an unusable guide
–something destined for a dusty
grave beneath a book
on some mouldering shelf–
without first hand knowledge
of the topography of your body
i suppose a grown up would not
say such a thing
–just so
then let me remain caught between
this youthful lust
and an old man’s cautious wisdom
and let us go exploring
she crawls on top of me
her skirt sliding up over
her thighs
bare knees pressed
against my hips
i can feel her heat
through my jeans
she leans down
her hair brushes
against my face
and she whispers
bearing down on me
like a fire
like the sun
her mouth against my ear
she whispers
“it’s okay if we do this”
and she presses down against me
and I slide my hands up her back
and find her skin
and her breath is fire
Words and Feathers 