Monday, January 9, 2012


So, you’re not a writer.
So you say…
You’re a doer…
Let me tell you, baby
That your actions are
Your words
And your words, your pen.
You weave quite the story with the movement of those
Sweet, sexy lips,
With the movement of your hands …
With the promises of the bulge in your jeans –
The bulge you say
Was created by the
The thought of my warm, soft flesh, pressed against
The masculine plains of
Your body’s landscape.

Would that I would
Be permitted to run
My hands over your
Willing geography
Oh … to be permitted
To explore you from
The top of your head
To the soles of your feet
And do let me stop
At the fountain that’s
Strategically placed
In the centre of it all.

Let me drink from
That spout, in the
Same way that you talk of worshipping at
My Holy Oasis.
Let me lay my
Ever yielding body –
Open as it is –
Down upon your
Dessert sands, which
Spring to life fully
At my touch

Let me taste the
Brown sugar that
Is your beautiful skin.
Let me become one with
You on this sweet ride
Into total oblivion
And release
Let me – just this once –
Let you bring us both
To completeness as we
Find the time and place
To truly give in to
This sweet, shared
And treasured obsession.

January 9, 2012

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