Your Lips

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Your lips are lines of a poem

indelibly written upon these breasts,

upon these hips,

like a tattoo or a scar,

an invisible mark I bear

upon my skin.

And when I decorate

the walls of my mind with stars,

those verses illuminate

like phosphorescence

in the glow of black light

and the lingering language

of your kiss

speaks to me again,

a satisfyingly long

and heartfelt ballad

that rhymes in all the right places

and transports this aching body

beyond words,

into the ecstatic agony

of memory.

Kiss

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I was lounging in sheer black lingerie and black velour heels

the last time you walked into my bedroom.

You swooped

as stealth as a fighter pilot,

planted your face between my thighs,

and carpet bombed my panties with little kisses,

each kiss blooming pleasure

like a dark flower on the surface of the thin lace,

leaving a wet trace.

 

You pushed my panties aside and attacked my pussy with your tongue,

savagely tender, lusciously viscous,

licking the juice,

lapping at the folds of my clitoris,

making me cry out

in anguish

for you to enter me.

 

And so you did.

I got on my knees

and you grasped the spikes of my heels in your hands

and slowly slid inside me from behind,

your hardness plunging

into plush wetness,

as a grunt-like sigh of ecstatic relief escaped from your lips,

the universal relief that men feel

when they return for a moment

to the womb of Woman’s embrace.

 

I twisted around to kiss your mouth,

but you playfully withheld,

and I begged for it, puckering and opening wide and pleading with my eyes.

You stared back at me, unyielding,

then spit hot and wet into my mouth

for me to swallow.

And only then,

with the hard and calculated mercy of a man,

you kissed me.

Last Encounter, A Poem

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There is a place
in a far away dreamtime
where you and I
make love
on Indian Time.

That is, outside of time entirely.
Ethereally,
in lucid fantasy.

Desires percolate in rich imagery,
become enunciated in language;
we talk dirty to one another,
savoring our
fervid words
in our waiting bodies,
that burn with anticipation…

Then we meet,
in this imaginary place,
this luxurious bedroom
of dreamtime,
rabid with hunger for each other.
Lips kiss artfully, eyes stare each other down,
tongues go wild,
consuming,
devouring
every inch
of one another,
mixing salty skin with saliva,
hard and soft mingling,
becoming wet, messy,
with the juices
of our passion…
Deliciously wet.

In this dreamy realm of sex,
I suck your cock and swallow you whole.
I drink the elixir of your cum
and it fortifies me to fuck you endlessly.
Here you enter me every which way, spit on me, slap me, bite me,
lick gently the hollow of my back,
delicately,
as you penetrate me from behind,
in and out…
Exquisitely.

Here all fantasies are fulfilled and still more emerge,
as we each understand perfectly
the humanity of each other,
intuitively,
sensitively.

And so we twist our bodies every which way
in pleasure,
moan, scream, pant, speak vulgar poetry to one another…
I eat your ass as you do me, doggy style,
I suck, over and over again your cock, wet
from being inside
the tightness of my asshole;
you reach your fingers up into my pussy,
pressing skillfully,
while you fill me, fuck me,
and make me cum,
again and again,
until we both ejaculate all over each other,
savoring the sweetness of our own nectar,
with our tongues
licking, sucking, kissing, teasing,
playfully…

Rhythmically, gracefully…

So hot…

So this is dreamtime,
a fleeting dream, real,
imagined, insubstantial, surreal,
an ephemeral imago
of making love to
to Santiago.