Truth

Somewhere inside,

of the depths of my soul

flow the rivers of desires, that cannot

be told, lie hours once

spent, and expectant nights;

recline all that lives

in my filthy twilights and my dawnings, my

beckoning wants,

all of them bursting

at the edges to haunt

my touches

as slow-satin caress, to creep and to roll

as bound

tenderness. Hold tighter, push firmer,

sweet stars to ignite…scarlet dreamscape drawn

in the palest

moonlight through my window,

pressed to cold plaster,

skin on skin,

oh my lord and

master of the whispered, the inscribed,

the blind; palm in my neck

and fingers entwined to invoke and to writhe,

like ivy,

with a covering of lace,

not politely to ask, but only to take:

To take screaming moments

and whirl them around; possessed,

slammed hard against a wavering ground,

given no halt,

and no sweet releases,

until the choir of clouds swells and

increases over eyes

glossed with rapture,

every second 

something new

and different

to capture and chain and to viscously drain any traces

of a tired routine:

no words now: only feel,  

on your knees

bones to the wall,

called forth, and called forth, until I can’t

stand at all. Shaking and sheltered, cold

front, warm back,

and clear in all that I do not lack for a second

under cover of you;

all that I am inside, all I desire to do and to selfishly take,

hair pulled,

just enough, at my nape, by darling fingers, tenderly bitten:

and so the truth, is growled and written,

hot-breathed

in my ear, from a hidden face,

born in our thunder and the golden grace of

our fires, and the beautiful dust;

born again: to know who I am,

is first to sift

the sands

of trust.