Master
erotica
It happens in the afternoons
something about the way
the gray of the cloud
consumes what I am left to be
after depletion, a ripe exhalation
erased, beautifully.
I want you, like something endangered
some kind of edge
I ache to soften
and devour whole.
Black bird feathers
blood on the tip of my tongue
for you
sinister Master mind
rolling hills
thundering wild.
When I get like this
it's you I want
to put hands on me;
you I want to make me
beg
for the kind of hunger
that grips
and spreads
and denies
and denies
until I am made perfect
for you.
Your fingers in my mouth
like heaven flashing bright
on dark screens.
Charcoal weather moving in
rain wet as a tongue
at the window glass
running down my thighs
in streams.
.
Author's Notes:
Just a little something. A release; of thought, of energy, of sensual poetics with
no where else to go, no one to belong to. Moth wings, circling heat.
Writing erotic poetry should feel messy like tousled hair
waves cascading down a naked body. Adrift, like secrets, like smoke rings
uncoiling from your cigarette as she
takes your cock in her mouth.
There should be room only for a sigh, for a soft turning
of the body, of the moon, of the seasons, in lush warm sheets.
I am watching the rain come down. Heavy metallic globes clinging,
nearly dropping,
but not quite,
from thick power lines.
"I want you, like something endangered, some kind of edge
I ache to soften"
Okay, goddamn.