|Attraction pt 1
By greenpastures on 07/01/2008
Rating: No Rating
The maddeningly distant taste of you tortures my desperate senses,
The spicy velvet incense of our blasphemously beautiful physical alchemy fills and brutally caresses these steamy walls,
With light dragonfly wing touches of imagination,
I quiet this serpentinic primal carnality with fingertips that are near trembling with greed.
Wanting only in my desperate withdrawal,
A blushing child fidgeting inside and out,
Begging silently behind wide eyes.
Your laughter is a beckoning finger,
Pure undiluted concentration from every part of you snares me.
Desire’s velvet barbs hold me,
Their feathery points tearing open my vessels in sinewy glee,
Gladly bleeding out in this heat sickness,
I run my tongue over lips filled with thunderstorms of need.
Just beneath the ripples you’re making on the top of my mind,
Fantasy of your flesh on mine races on.
The muscles in your throat and wrists that dance toward the light are reborn in my fever,
Reconceived as thighs, stomach, chest,
All close enough to taste.
The slight glimmer that glows in your eyes is teasing.
Part of the raw creature uncurling in me would feast on that light’s explosion.
Unconscious habits you wear like old costume jewelry,
Are becoming madmen set loose in my self-control.
Everything is breaking down in the easily ignored alarms rationale.
A smile reminds me of the dozens of other uses for that oh so far away mouth.
This is addiction during sobriety,
While never having known the drugs rush.
The potency of this sensual magicians spell,
Reflects with the sweat on my palms,
Pulses with heart’s escalating snare roll,
Creeping devil-smoke all over your body,
I touch you quietly with my glances.
All this time that quicksilver dragon Lust is breathing in my veins.
The sublime tropical humidity in me and through me.
Centimeters I inch closer to you,
Serve only to heat this tender fever.
A wanton tempest of body and soul,
Swiftly calls me out from the calm.
Attraction is a paper word,
Too benign to be this live wire inside flesh,
In this burning twilight aching drumbeat.
Eyes dripping with corduroy need,
The whirling room and it’s other inhabitants are acres away,
Stars to a child on a swing.
And you the firefly,
So desired and distant from these fingers,
A scent of pure eroticism,
Swung from a censer made of a pulse.
© By greenpastures On 7/1/2008 7:47:07 AM