Lust

In the Dark of My Soul

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Dusky non-dark lightness 
the kind that comes only
in those no-name motels, 
secret places of meeting
where the darkness
of strange rooms is muted by
lined-orange curtains, 
where parking-lot-lights caste 
ethereal shadows: 

you come quietly to bed 
like nothing uncommon exists 
in my being there drowsy 
head on your pillow,
clothed in your shirt. 

Your body, stiff in the act 
of lying down, carefully 
trying not to wake me 
from my almost-dream-state 
sleeping. Your 
warm-volatile 
spark-laden energy 
forced 
into submission -- still atomic: your skin, chest warm, 
hips touching -- 

rolling, turning, wrapping 
myself around you -- 
normal-necessary touch, 
like a moth to flame -- 
the burning-shock 
epiphany moment, 
in an old motel room --you, 
a bright-white imprint 
in the dark of my soul.


~May 2012


 


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the type of man sex came to possess


				

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~for MG


I thought of sex

when I first met you —

deep strides, dapper dress,

piercing eyes —

it all resonated, a chill shiver

down the depth of me &

warmth spreading deeper

with my crimson thoughts

because you are the type of man

sex came to possess,

own — carry

into closed rooms, silk beds.


The glass of wine

sparkling amber, glass bubbles

move in the glass,

the world rattles on around us

while your words fall

on the table between us

and then,

I am stunned

by the words, their rich

deep colors, meanings

moving into an acid-like Trip

in my brain. Stunned!


You have amazed me!

My words turn

around, crawl back down

into the velvet parts of me

as I realize

what you don’t –

I am too naive for this

conversation. Too distracted

with the thought of undressing

you to understand beyond lust.


Why do your words

keep spilling down, around, rolling

across the table, tumbling

to the floor

to lay like marbles

on the gleaming wood?


~April 2012 

			

	
		
	


				
					


	
	

		
Peach


				

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Giovanni Ambrogio Figino - Metal Plate with Peaches and Vine Leaves
Giovanni Ambrogio Figino - Metal Plate with Peaches and Vine Leaves Courtesy of Wikipedia




A peach shirt,

not really your color,

hung and waiting

on cold metal wire.


I called, to be sure

you wouldn’t mind

the borrowing

before I slipped

and slithered my body

into the color. Peach

warm, Peach soft weave

covering my skin.


I remembered the color,

its connotation

with Georgia – the South,

remembered

my so far-away home

where peach meant

sweet-juice-filled fruit,

ripe for picking.


A few hours later,

you peel the peach shirt

away from my limbs,

biting into the warm-deep flesh

of Southern hot-brown skin.


~ January 2012







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of Broken Rooms


				

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~for P




{Art: Isolation by Ina Mar (c) Adagp, Paris}


 


There is deep silence here ~


Forlorn-magic once spoke

whispered kisses, your name

crossing my lips, a breath only

against the skin – soft, taut, strong skin

of your neck, arms, chest. In

the dark shadows of broken rooms,

building a home of – destruction first. Then,


building a home of hope of – the sheets were clean,

the warm-blood-wood walls

holding secrets, ours and earlier, generations before us

these walls were closing in on the hearts beating rapid,

percussion, the sounds of fluttering clicking time

in a dark house beside a church. Sacrilegious – passion

burning, life burning  death — in the graveyard

at the edge of a hill – a ghost-memory whispers, soft

edible cries, choking, sobbing – whisper, whisper

of wings. Forlorn-angels once walked 


in the soft dew-grass, wet droplets clinging

to porcelain animals, mysteries, dead flowers.

This sweet-heated moisture, muscle, brushing

of skin against skin – the sheets were clean,

destruction, chaos building – building

into ecstasy, into orgasm, into ending.

Our secret,

our bodies – so deliciously warm, wrapped, entwined

in a space of time

where forlorn magical angels sing, wing-beats

lifting our names above the graves.


There is a deep memory here ~


~October, 2011


Artwork: Isolation by Ina Mar (c) Adagp, Paris. Please visit her website at:  http://www.redbubble.com/people/ina-mar/works/6081284-isolation




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Crumpled Sheets


				

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I can remember

the way you walk –

a fluid movement

with erotic appeal.


The way your hair

falls a certain way

across your cheeks,

beside your eyes.


A slight lift to the right

whenever you smile –

the honey sweet taste

of your lips, of you

in a passionate kiss.


I can remember

the way your back

feels soft and muscled –

warm – as I roll closer,

snuggle into sleep.


Waking to feel

the length of your legs

entwined with mine,

the width of your chest,


the weight of you

shifting, above and within

me — your chest touching mine,

soft whisper of words

against the nape of my neck.


I can remember

the strength of you

holding me, taking me,

hot against my flesh –

filling me completely

all those long years ago.


~July, 2011 South Carolina


Photography Prints


ARTWORK: Reverie by Richard Young. For artist information, other available works, and further details on this piece, please go here.