Friday, 7 March 2014


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,
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.    

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