this does not belong
in a book
or on paper
it should be
blazing across
each existential universe
your immaculate
humility stumbles
my gesture
bathe me in
every movement
that has made
you a man
every echo
is wild
pulsating
carnal
I am
No pillow comes without residue.
At our age, blessings come in small forms…
hands cradled together,
words buried in sweet breath,
unconditional nights,
uncontrolled…..
Tell me about your exploration, about
fingertips trickling down
courage….
spines do not break easily, do they?
I met you today,
I see your influence and result,
you probably know
that I see through blue eyes,
saturated by the way your fingertips move.
*This is a bit risque…so…if you aren’t an adult, don’t read it…LOL
I feel myself screaming down low,
my curves curving more, in search of,
in need; my cave waiting,
tugging on the emptiness,
in desperation.
I know this man who is solid,
his limbs aligned, straight and hard,
as a man would be. He has been calling me
with capacity, firm grasped,
swollen purple.
He has come for me before,
it was winter, he turned me into a mermaid
and brought me to a heated spring.
I never hesitated.
That was just once.
There were several times, over several seasons
that he came for me
again, and again.
I know this man who is solid and firm
and I scream for him, my body searches for him,
I belong to him.
Note keys float out
swamp leaves, slit open,
hang out by green string.
Black notes,
A, B, C, float dark nightly,
lightly
through a
new moon’s ear piece.
A mad need, I am
bad seeds
planting roots
in last years’ moon beams.
Spread eagle.
Tongue tied,
sublimely.
The serene swamp sings.
Wants me
buzzing,
dripping golden honey
with springs yellow bees.
I asked the love beat
to swim,
stark,
bare feet
jealous oak trees watching
each move
melodically down stream
whipped cream
skin
dipped in a breeze.
A wet dream
for an
old, dry oak tree.
Oh, I have been kept,
too long
refrigerated.
My tongue itches for links of
Vienna, a
swallow of
germ juice. Emptiness is
a plague,
a manic,
internal,
thirst.
My crossed legs quiver
on cue at
red storms
ice score
over a Ranger Hound. Ah!
What a hallucination
I devour!
A deserving,
choice
New York Strip
with  liquor lips
and packing hands.
Dear Desire, would craving be
craved if
bark met
bark even once??
If so, I’ll keep the craving and
you can
keep the steak.
From the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,
where productions
remain silent but still produce,
where every rehearsed act
plays on, as if
unrehearsed.
Nobody would know the difference unless
they were watching
from the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,
the place that the universe bends for,
dances for,
multiplies for.
Once, a painted woman sat upon
the tower,
supreme and hungry,
watching
different casts perform…
her muse!
She was born with a gift.
An Eye!
A Wandering Eye!
At her command, her left eye would jump
out of its socket
on hunt
as the hungry painted woman
wished.
The Eye knew not the exact
silage, but
there were markings,
specifics, that the Eye knew to watch for.
The painted woman waited,
high in the clouds,
imposing on conversation
between wind
and
weather….
waiting.
Soon, her Wandering Eye would
return
with her meal –
soldiers, fighters,
carpenters,
shaman,
each had a purpose.
The painted woman would accept her
prey, swallowing them completely
in to
herself,
writhing them in and out of consumption,
pulling them deep into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!
She touched
and kissed
and drooled on
each of their gifts
using each
as her very own until
she was
spent.
Then, she would take her lust-probing eye and
retire,
leaving nothing of
her pillage behind!!
A snake,
overflowing
with lasciviousness!
One day, the brushed lady
was brought a tender
slice of
musician, with sad,
blue diamonds sparkling so bright
that when she saw her reflection
in them,
her left gift, was
immediately calcified,
a vegetable!
Useless!
She barely noticed!
They stood together at the tip-top
of the towering fortress,
oblivious to
acts,
actors,
and
actresses.
All the muse she needed stood
beside her, with a box of suffering chocolates
and rust roses,
begging
her
for consumption! On his knees he
pleaded for
use!
Baffled by his strange request, she conformed to
habit.
The painted woman accepted her
prey, swallowing him completely
in,
writhing his body in and out of her consumption,
pulling him deep, deeper into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!
She touched his gifts,
gently kissed his gifts
caressed each gift as if it were her own
until
the bewitching young
musician was spent, sleeping inside her body.
This had never happened before.
She knew “withdraw”
not “succumb”.
How dare he retire without her!
Leaving her here,
alone,
on the tip-top of a towering
fortress without
her only friend,
her tool!
She panicked when the script
started
in the world below. Its silence
sounded different
somehow.
Heartsick.
At that moment, the lady,
standing at the tip-top of the towering fortress
flung herself
from the security of the towers’ height,
diving to join
the world below!
My Lord,
I know you in language,
not
by your fingertips,
or your tongue,
or your eyes,
or your voice,
or heavy petting,
or lip smacking.
I do not know the scent of your release,
or the heaviness of your desire,
or the longing in your sighs,
or the length of your reach.
I do not know your grip,
your push,
your gasp for a breath,
your touch,
your taste,
your hunger.
My Lord,
I know you in vocabulary,
in depiction.
I know you in daydream
where
I have felt your limit,
where I have forfeited myself
in the aroma
of your pleasure,
where I have met you at the top
of the mountain,
the highest peak,
where we have gasped for air
together,
fingers entwined,
legs braided,
excreting deliquescent
adoration.
My Lord,
I speak in daydream,
lost in lust language
where I know you.
The top of the stairs is a lonely
place to
sit
buttoned up
blotted out
a
human splotch spying
on a beautiful
dance
her name is dusty
a cryptogram
enticing
men of solution
to
descend
she extends a maze with her hand
he reaches
to
her
one touch
a crushing warmth
he
enters a
twisted, bending, twirling
riddle
at the bottom of the stairs
from the bottom
of a
casual heart
where dusk sways
in
out
entangling him into her
crafty dance
maggiemaeijustsaythis 