Counting Coup

In anticipation of Valentine’s Day, I am sharing some of my poetry that portrays different aspects of love. Yesterday’s was the lighter side of love. This one today shows a darker side. Beneath the facade of a loving relationship can simmer war-like intention and harm. Those aspects are usually relegated to the subconscious or unconscious side of our emotions, and yet they are present in a discernible way nonetheless.

erotica poetica

photo-99

You kiss me

and our lips melt into each other like smooth wax.

Your warm spit enters my mouth like a gift,

luscious and wet.

You are inside me,

outside of me,

all over me,

the urgency of your desire

a thick veil wrapped around me.

Your wanting body

pressed flush to mine,

so hard against my softness.

We rock together in syncopation.

Our dreams complexly intertwined,

like a lattice pattern

similar to the black lace trim

lining the edges of my panties,

the boundary of which

you have pushed aside

to enter me.

You penetrate me to the depths of my being.

You touch me,

touch me

TOUCH ME

so deep…

Rolling and flowing over me in sensuous waves,

surfing and riding me,

cresting,

peaking,

you are all pulsing and fluid,

crashing

until spent,

you retreat again,

like the fading of the tide.

Then you are gone.

Again and again,

View original post 99 more words

Counting Coup

photo-99

You kiss me

and our lips melt into each other like smooth wax.

Your warm spit enters my mouth like a gift,

luscious and wet.

You are inside me,

outside of me,

all over me,

the urgency of your desire

a thick veil wrapped around me.

Your wanting body

pressed flush to mine,

so hard against my softness.

 

We rock together in syncopation.

Our dreams complexly intertwined,

like a lattice pattern

similar to the black lace trim

lining the edges of my panties,

the boundary of which

you have pushed aside

to enter me.

 

You penetrate me to the depths of my being.

You touch me,

touch me

TOUCH ME

so deep…

 

Rolling and flowing over me in sensuous waves,

surfing and riding me,

cresting,

peaking,

you are all pulsing and fluid,

crashing

until spent,

you retreat again,

like the fading of the tide.

 

Then you are gone.

 

Again and again,

you count coup on me, body and soul,

harming me with this terrible pleasure.

 

It is not possible to emerge unscathed.

 

Counting coup refers to the winning of prestige in battle by the Plains Indians of North America. Warriors won prestige by acts of bravery in the face of the enemy, and these acts could be recorded in various ways and retold as stories. Any blow struck against the enemy counted as a coup, but the most prestigious acts included touching an enemy warrior with the hand, bow, or with a coup stick then escaping unharmed. — Wikipedia