Rose Skin

Sex meets heart,

a yellow dew-kissed start.
Silken slips of rose skin,
moisten and tend
to my inner being.
Balance the roaring
waves of desire,
with an avaricious fire,
the need to be loved,
1 foot above.

Gasps of green and
torrential tickles,
blast me wide open,
with the strength to face you.
The vulnerability paradox.


Pleasure streaming,
down walls freely,
like dribbles of passion paint,
poured with angled abandon.
Whose wet legs finally meet,
only after days
of coursing languidly,
head over open knees,
dangling surrender.

Excitement Soda

Sweet, gratifying cactus, how I'll miss thee.

More providing cacti exist, I heard somewhere.
With even larger capacities for love.
Is that true?
It's hard to know that any will be as good as you.

((You've tied the noose before the sentence was delivered.
What sliver of possibility could remain in such a game?))

Engage alternate ending!
I scrape the resin of judgment from my meninges.
Smear it upon the paper to examine its color more closely.
Swaddle, coddle even, the fear of the unknown,
with lovingkindness.

I gallantly parade my best wishes about the airwaves,
like effervescent experiments DaNc.ing ViViD Exc!tement.
Like a christmas kid, who can hardly wait,
to greet her glistening gifts.

The ones I expect.
I can already trace their concealed shape in my imagination.

And the ones I'll never see coming.
Fated to careen me straight for a cartoon halo of ♥ 's and $'s.

Alchemical Summer

Blue.green sky surging by,
warmth laced with gold fireflies,
aglow with a social chemistry
that drifts above wet blades of emerald.

Your smile soothes my heart like
a pillow left warm by my beloved's body.
Your dynamic mane of light,
recognition of unique in this world.

Above the Waist

Your fiery tickle

Above the waist, in cream lace
Rolling in pleasure

Unleashing Desire

Unleashing desire

My water spilled twice today
No man left untouched

Purge Puddle

This urgent birthing,
I require words for,
which would outline its origin,
contain its meaning,
explicate its reasons.
Except, none of this exists.

Only the sensation,
hunched over in preparedness,
relentlessly contracting organs,
and the relieving movement
as the effort comes hurling forth,
a reverse slide of wet color.

This, its only known connection to words.

Reasons to Cry Over Spilt Milk

Spill me like a plastic pail of milk,
reluctantly spreading its rounded reach.
Surface tension momentum
until, relieved, it cascades into a crack,
into place, as by design.

With its path precise now,
it effortlessly courses,
forging its extent further than before.
A rebellious backsplash leaves its mark outside the line,
a reminder of a time once beautiful,
"accidental" fruitfulness.
Where admirers congregate,
surrounding the tiny droplets,
projecting their dreams upon its shape.

Does this serve you, my friend?
Or else, what is it good for?