Head Over Heels
I crawl back into myself
before morning comes
to wake my sleeping body;
the flesh of me in the corner
below the covers...
beneath the gold and white
silk curtains
draped across the ceiling
(the ones that make me
Queen of Sheba)
where I pose
with all the finesse of Cleopatra--
the fury of an impassioned Mozart
until the cd player
sounds a final note,
and the room falls silent
except for breathing.
This is not sleeping--
this is collapsing
into your absence;
Alice without her
wonderland.
In dreaming--
I am ragged and worn
with hunger;
I am out the window
and on my way...
Dorothy
(your slave)
hands and knees
on the yellow brick road,
while the Tin Woodman carries
my coat
and the Cowardly Lion
hums a song and drags
my luggage.
Like always--
I'm moving into your house of Oz
between the hours of three
and five...
(my finest magic trick
performed with only
two eyelids, and
a click of my heels)
those ruby slippers
caught on the windowsill
I'll come blowing in
before the alarm clock wails;
sprawling into dawn
(consciousness too)
your voice still swirling
in my head...
a faint smile,
a fading whisper--
(the simple truth)
"There's no place like home."
In-box Pleasures
Let me be your lucky Lolita;
I'll place my hands on
the pc waiting
to moisten your thighs
spinning, you could roll
relaxed on my tongue,
as I bind your wrists
with tightly woven sentences;
petting your face by the light
of the terminal
(naked words, the aphrodisiac)
spitting you out
somewhere before morning;
a little wet dream
with nimble fingers
(dressed and vanishing)
when you switch
the power off.
Little Miss
Dancer
High gloss lips
and stiletto heels,
you swivel those hips
to the beat of the music
more skin than lace
(swing and sway)
his lamp post lit
by your flame.
Octopus arms
deliver the goods,
all wrapped up
in brandywine bravado
red nails scraping
down his back,
when you attack,
it's lust for pleasure.
Dangerous bosom pressed
in the dip of his chin;
legs apart lead to
honeydew melon...
fishnet stockings
succumb to love bites,
delivered in low light--
the lamp glows red.
His mind is burning
and hands are hot coals;
you dive on in,
little miss dancer
with a thirst to gamble
men are dice;
throw them dizzy
and watch...
they tumble, and scramble
like mice on the floor.
Crawling, blinded
by enticing rhythm;
the sound that comes
from your honey prison
you're bound to ruin
another good man,
but he keeps coming back
for an emotional death
as you tango across
the grave of his bed.
Early AM
These hours linger
like a virgin's awakening
my tongue thrust into
a coffee cup,
busy chasing marshmallows
adrift on a sea of cocoa.
The heady smell
of your cologne
still embracing my skin
tickling my nose,
and I don't want
to wash you off.
I long for the scent
to linger
like the sound of our
"good-byes" whispered
on your way out...
into the world,
into the morning,
as you left me.
While I lick my lips
(and taste the sticky sweet)
I think of the way
you were breathing
(excited)
by my feather soft descriptions
of the way I was about to...
(love you in my way)
I always like filling
your head with verbal
Polaroid snapshots
(just before it happens).
Wearing your shirt
(and nothing else)
my tongue back at sea
I submerse my upper lip
thinking...
of how I'd rather be melting
(like those little candy clouds)
in the depths of your mouth.
Rock-A-Bye
She dove into his lap
a preying hawk--
he'd sat napping in
an old wooden rocker
on the back porch;
desire quietly steeping
for her thoughtful
Adonis, sleeping.
Jolted,
then coughing a laugh,
Cody's cheeks turned
faintly red...
though he swore
it was the rude awakening
that had sent his blood
so wildly racing.
Legs straddling hips
Lena wet-kissed his forehead;
licked lashes clean
then pressed her tongue
to southern lips
hands searching beneath
a summer dress,
traced the shape of
a peach grove bosom--
as he could feel a buckle
coming loose,
and his belt being pulled
from its loops...
blue jeans peeled
un-zipped, exposed--
petite palms sliding down
in want of hard cider
sweetness
she felt him ripen;
squeezing the backs
of her thighs--
wrought and anxious.
Curved fingers into
her butter-cup,
spilling dew in the dish
of his hand...
thick and hot
as pure paprika,
she was losing her mind
to his religion.
Hard apple pressed
in the throat of her flower;
fertile, slippery
feeding of thirst...
an afternoon rock-a-bye
on the back porch;
that old wooden chair
earning its worth.
Candle Wick
I can not see past
your wanton angels;
I wish nothing more
than to touch their faces--
should I dissolve
pour me as liquid
slowly
swirl in the the dip
of my blushing basin.
a lost hummingbird
on borrowed wings,
I sing when you're
closer than skin.
As we cling on Avalon sheets,
steamy fingertips glide
to find those tender spots
dew that weeps in ripened,
heated
drips of a hot wax lover
I
can't resist.
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