And the need I want is deep,
Desperately seeking surface.
When is a word –
Are chills ever fully quenched in the
Selective ghaint heat?
You chatter slow,
Deliberate and hard and –
Stuck-up. Presumptuous. Fickle. Obtuse to the point of naivety. Novelty. Notoriety –
Some things slipped in throats –
Mind the gap.
Tasting the thick fog of full vision democracy in my exotic;
Often mistinted to glow with different hues.
Cannot! – Will not;
Sing notes of letters and numbers I leave on your tongue.
‘Yes. No. Please.
Sure. Fine. Why.’
Has to be –
Has to be –
The first line of defence is remembering to breathe.
Inhale – deflect. Exhale – reject.
Please exit the area.
(Share and devour).
Chests that rise populate the land of the one –
Islands fascinated, filtered and favoured.
Mouths on minutes sounded off. The stretch in my complacency and misused pronouns heard the scratches.
Instant gratification will always be liberty a heart can never fill.
Brethren we are bound by the H2O of cosmetic applications.
The roads less travelled became matter multiplied.
Paths grew with each periodic sigh of belonging
Styled in convenience; armed and dangerous –
We danced in cerebral cortexes cloudy;
choosing not to abandon the search for stars –
While peering into lungs.
It’s only tenant embraced transgressions –
Rising in the mist of consciousness,
Drowning in moot of innocence.
The first –
The last –
Line of defence is
Your lighthouse and safe port
Misty in Nubian rain.
Was I the
Lace on leather, suede with silk
Bearing weight –
You expressed your delivery
I come in custom.
Woven in uneven textures,
Cargo on ships –
You remind me of habits.
Eternity surrounded us
Reminding God doesn’t love for plans or promises.
Do you feel the sweat
In this savannah?
I consumed today.
Searching creative tongues;
Sentences paper finds too subtle.
Books on discount –
Miller‘s moons over June…
It is easy to have you at charge
When I danced
That devil –
(Subconsciously and not entirely
Of my own mechanical facets).
– Like passion –
Is always on sale
& a small splash of fresh blood on a stone.
An unusual, dark maroon.
Boots plod through dirt
or volcanic ash, semi-comic puffs mark every stride
& the sound of the doorbell is like a squeal/
Three women watch twelve naked men in
the afternoon sunshine, their beards
glisten with beer.
The wet slap of passion does
not echo in the walls of this engagement &
out on the patio
the pigeons & starlings
are birds in the same game deck
& struts ….even
the sun is mounting our privacy screen.
Like evolved beasts, shaved all over
& wearing sunglasses for effect
each talks before tumble,
ask before we bask.
Bald & bandy
eats his candy.
With a crack of the whip
the Mistress supervised a line of six men
milking their condom coated cocks
like a mad old military band.
View original post 126 more words
“We have no dominion over desire. It’s our ancient, aristocratic master, like hunger or sleep. It sings in our bones and stains our clothes and conspires to make us look ridiculous. Perhaps that is why every new book on desire—and there is always a new book on desire—seems so brave. Every one, an attempt to put into language what is essentially hostile to language and resists interpretation. ” – Parul Sehgal
By Parul Sehgal, Slate, June 7, 2013
We have no dominion over desire. It’s our ancient, aristocratic master, like hunger or sleep. It sings in our bones and stains our clothes and conspires to make us look ridiculous. Perhaps that is why every new book on desire—and there is always a new book on desire—seems so brave. Every one, an attempt to put into language what is essentially hostile to language and resists interpretation.
Unmastered is the first book from Katherine Angel, a British academic who brings a supple intelligence and a slithery style to her personal account of a love affair. She’s a sexual intellectual with the hauteur of a Hitchcock blonde. The lady doesn’t come, she arrives.
Angel asks the same questions we always ask about desire: Why do I like what I like?Am I wrong to like what I like? and Why is it…
View original post 1,198 more words
We will never share a story
Fiction for the non –
No, we will never paint a picture;
Baiting with word, falling for failings
In canvas size places
Printed with people, used.
Facetious tiffs –
We could never keep
To sound off truths
That had space
“What about me?”