Tag Archives: sex

1969

June, it passes without a breath.
In this room, the day met it’s death.
I see sweet seduction in bare skin,
sucking on an ice cube from a glass of gin.
The sunlight gold becomes the moon’s white.
That smile, that warmth, this appetite.
If angels know passion, let this spell be.
If only demons work flesh, cast me into the sea.
I want to go to you, and know you, open those doors.
I want to go to you, but not spill blood from my wars.
In the moon’s white we illuminate the divine eyes.
A dream of solace in touch and in passionate sighs.
Lay close to me, your flaxen hair soft as heaven’s silk.
Let it bring us close to life, let us not choke on the devil‘s milk.
Let the name I chose for you become a sacred rhyme.
Let us be humble and whole, this time.
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Harsh With Peppermints

Her breath was hot and wet,
Harsh with peppermint.

Her hair fell loose, veiled our faces,
As the stars sighed and were spent.

July 6th, but still fireworks explode,
Low rent razzle dazzle in the night.

She is thin, small chested, taut wire,
And a new Athena now in my sight.

This is life wanting to plant seeds of death,
To make and nurture an inevitable loss.

I am a pilgrim of pleasure, devoted to her,
Ignoring the light reflected in her gold cross.

Her hand is sweaty, moist, in my own.
She hums a love song as we walk up stairs.

On her thin, hard bed we quietly make love.
Passions, like angels, are made to be pairs.

Horror And Lightness

Space between the air.
Beyond seeing, but not feeling,
I know she watches.

A face behind the eyes
Of a swimsuit model’s poster,
Tempting me to leave.

The sex and the sorrow,
The promise of a mystery
Beyond what I see.

The promise that she
Can look like that model
And that she can heal my scars.

Horror and lightness, like first desire,
Fill my lost and empty heart,
As a Cara and not a Joan promise

The sea where demons stay asleep
And that flesh and spirit make the stars
And the moon will always be the eye.

From behind the eyes of a swimsuit model
She beckons, the sweet and little death
Of washing away sorrow with magic.

“Will you come?”

“Will you come?”

The Little Death of Icarus


Deep In Light

She stands at the window in red briefs and a black tank top,
lost in a revirie of city grim and golden morning light, deep in light.

A shadow, a breath, from an unknowable place reveals outlines of
her silver, gossamer angel’s wings. Reveals her divine spirit and light.

That smooth mess of long brown hair catches the last stars
and they’re fading light halo her head, pronouncing her the skies queen.

Passion and lust and simple love crash through me, still half dreaming in bed.
The stars and dirt that make me can shape these disturbed things into paradise.

The train horn wails like a weeping ghost or a banshee fortelling death to come.
Morning is here and the starlight idyll must end for the real world we can’t leave.

I get up, my feet cold on the hardwood floor, pimple flesh crawling up my arms and legs.
I get up and wrap my arms around her middle, kiss the nape of her neck, inhale her scent.

Wishing I could pull her back to bed and we could make love in this perfect morning,
in this cold apartment in this crumbling city, in this absurd and sweetened life.

She pulls away, kisses my cheek, and strips to get into the shower and start the day.
I strip too and join her, carefully, reverently washing her shoulder blades,

for they hide her wings, her magic, her lighter than sunlight magic that pulls us up
to someplace better than the world that shames and breaks us and drains us without end.

Pale flesh reddened by the hot water, her eyes closed in gentle reverie, remembering
what the sunlight showed her, and what glories come in a shared morning,

when you can still love, still walk deep into light, and know what’s born in skin
can still touch the stars and leave these chains of corrupted carnality behind.


The First Time We Fell, On The 4th

Brie and I sit on the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine.
It’s the end of summer, the wind is warm and so fine.

My arm around her, she rests her head upon my shoulder,
I kiss her head, her cheek, this dark night grows so much colder

 The Fort is full of revelers shouts, thumping music, noise.
The song and dance of love and sex, of girls chasing boys.
 We talk about this movie we watched together, the deep truth,
and beginning of feelings, after shooting fireworks of the roof.
 I ask her, will she be my woman, my lover, my mad eyed muse.
Kissing my softly, she says this is paradise, and The Serpent is loose.
 The revelers going on, the dull roar of the city, the darkness of lust,
she takes me by the hand, leads me to bed, and in passion we trust.
 Morning, I wake in her arms, and it’s still dark, though now it’s all still.
The night is death and the sweetest loss, filled with a cold, snarling will.
 She is soft, she is warm, and the fruit was eaten, before, and will be again.
The Serpent is the guarntor of paradise, and the madly broken always win.

November Light

Absolved from feeling, in the early morning.
Cold November light, watery and thin,
trickling through bedroom windows
as we make love, flesh forgotten, flesh denied.

Holding in the sounds and cries, keeping quiet,
even as we melt like candle wax from the flame
of love and desire, spilling onto the sheets
and the floor, to harden into brand new shapes.

 Even as we lose ourselves, even as November light
crowns our skin with the gentlest or reprimands,
we listen for the high spirited sounds of morning cartoons,
meaning our daughter is awake, and this must end.
 Burying my mouth in her kiss, we cum together,
and slowly the flame that melted our skin snuffs out,
and the smoke of it still lingers, in raging, happy hearts.
Souls made new shapes, growing closer around each other.
 November light, casts porcelain quiet upon her face,
the sweet cold of the fading year, the light that remembers.
Those sounds of cartoons come, and we leave our reveries,
and dress, and return to the mundane world, the weight of flesh.

Party Down

August is the last kiss before she leaves.
The last part of you that in magic believes.
Blue and white bikini and her black hair wet.
That smile, this love, these days, place the bet
that she will stay, that love will grow,
and that August won’t pass into the fall we don’t know.
The night is humid and sultry and filled with booze,
and as you lay her down, as you kiss her, what is their to lose?
The stars the bridemaids to a momentary paradise and loss,
and the moon the priest that seals the deal in pentagram and cross.
The distant music, the hotness of her skin, the belief it will last.
The night sweet in the coming burns your eyes when it become the past.
Spin the galaxy like she did spin the bottle like the sun spins the earth.
Regret is a paradise reclaimed and made holy in divine curse and infernal worth.
If I could but be there again, falling asleep in her embrace, my head against hers,
to let go of the high and mighty ways of my anger and the joy it lashes out and defers.

Charlotte

Ice cream blonde, hair bright, a silken halo falling down
over her American Flag bikini top.
She laughs and smiles like a child, writing her name in the dark
with the burning sparkler.
Even know, after it all, she laughs and smiles like a child, so free,
in this sweet moment.
Fourth of July and the sky explodes in color and fire and smoke,
and her halo shines back it’s light.
Independence Day, maybe we’ll be independent of the past,
of mistakes and the things that hurt us.
Declare we are one now, again, and the sweetness will come.
Maybe we’ll make love…
…….really make love, with tenderness and hope and softness,
and actually grow close in a touch.
The sparkler reaches it’s end, and she exclaims, asks for another,
to write her name in the dark again
where it will last and be eternal and kept and cherished by all.
Let this be Independence Day.

Touch and Go

Little death, little death with her.
Life and death made one, it where.

Touch and go, touch and stay, touch.
Touch, to know you, consume as such.

The quiver in her voice, in the soft sighs.
The smile on her lips, the fire in her eyes.

I want skin to touch, souls to entwine.
Do I love her, or do I want her to be mine?

Holding tight, she says such tender things.
In the distance, the clock tower latley rings.