saying something foolish

And yet another housecleaning post. Need to move from house cleaning to thread cleaning and get my next ego boost edited and published.


Faux incredulous look.
Straightening your hair
like you are polishing
a gleaming halo.
Offering protest
when I ask about
the pace
the direction
of your behavior.
It's not that I think
that you are naughty
or devious.
I know that you are
never wicked or deviant.
That being said,
A casual decadent whisper
over your shoulder
shivers you,
turns up the tone
of your skin,
in color
tightness.
Your skin becomes too tight
for your body and you stretch
catlike
with a sub-audible purr.
The light in your eyes flashes
like a beacon
and your lips curl,
not quite a leer.
Now when you brush your hair
with your hands,
it is like you are already undressing
with the halo the first to go.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stiletto heels
pressed against my heart.
Tasting old lipstick and soured wine.
Leave me nothing but silence
and a rumpled bed.
Oh shit,
another shirt stolen.
Find my special friends
from the clothes
hanging in their closet.
Or in a rag bin
waiting to wipe off grease
from fast cars
rode hard.
I really don't mind them leaving
me to face the night alone.
Well, not that much.
But I hate
when they don't lock the door.
on the way out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've found that I am comfortable
with my silence.
No longer need the blues
playing on the radio,
I have my own song
in my head.

I no longer need
the cadence of desultory conversation.
Happy when she holds my hand
and squeezes it.
As long as she is smiling.
No smile requires more comfort.

Wild war whoops
went away when kids were born.
Passion can be kept quiet,
or quiet can be passionate.
Not sure which.
Low moans are nice though.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is no poetry,
so sense of words written
as music.
Perhaps there is no music.
Except the sound
found only in the deepest silence.
Then words are silenced
because the temptation to write
is lost in the fear of breaking
quiet to be heard.
To be heard
and hear laughter in reply.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Enigmatic woman,
that only emotes
with her eyes.
What sorrow sings
in your soul
that hides your smile.
The warmth of your voice
offers your love.
Your hand's caress,
your passion.
When sad,
you simply turn away.
Anger has no measure.
I wonder what would crack
that stoic image.
What song or saying
would make you soar
on wings of laughter.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He used a sharpie,
to make it somewhat permanent.
He placed her on the bed
while he wrote
on her back.
He wouldn't say,
she couldn't ask.
Words worry her.
Sometimes he lies,
most times not.
With very little expression.
She has learned not to question.
She may check it in the mirror,
tomorrow,
when he has left.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some might call it symbiotic:
his need,
her desire to please.

Calling something normal
ranks right up there
with calling something good
or bad.
But normal was not
what they had.

Bite marks and whip welts
were too transient
for his desire to mark,
her desire to show
her obligation.

Which is why
she ended up with
wings inked upon her back.
strange fingers
and cold metal
invading her sex.
Real tears
upon her face.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nano-clams and other molluscs


Hard shell
cracks, gives, separates under pressure
exposing goo
inside.
Inside me.
Scarlet horror
in manicured nails
designed to slice, dice
make me think twice.
Morning madness,
rolling out of bed,
falling to the floor,
finally awake.
Only to look back
and find my place
already taken.
Energetic smiles
and pneumatic action.
At least the fresh water
shower,
washes away the salt water
tears.
Even with a string of pearls
not one was real.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Discarded sunset.
Too late
to watch the western sky
show its glory,
hues of yellow, orange, red
already turned to that dark
bluish-purple
ready to fade to a final black.
Not as if
I planned on saving it
for another day.
No,
just deliberately turning my back
waiting for the black
of night.
Evening clouds even shielding
out the moon,
the stars.
Constant wind has died
to show its disapproval.
This cigar tastes like shit.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Don't ask me.
I don't know what tree
desire grows on.
I don't know when it is ripe
or immature.
I don't know if its flower
is fleeting or
lasts all summer long.
I just know when it is
and how she makes me smile.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Is the glass half empty
or half full?
Perhaps it is a prop,
signifying a prelude
to an interlude.
I wonder if she would show
me a breast
if I asked her.
If she would cross her legs,
dramatically,
showing me heaven,
or at least the color
of her panties that
I want to remove.
Or is that too forward?
perhaps I should taste
her
before I remove them.
What can I say,
I need no reason to desire,
only a signal to proceed.
 
So I don't lose them...





She understands
stylized allure
with scripted strips,
fans and feathers.
But sometimes,
I have to remind her,
gently,
that bare breasts
offer a link to a certain sensual desire.
But so do morning kisses,
midday smiles,
and late-night caresses.
Dance for many,
dance for me,
but most of all
she should dance for herself.
But, I hope that she remembers,
it is not the dance,
It is the innate grace
that lets her dance.
The joy, the desire,
That she shares.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes she sounds jaded
in her desire.
Women are a mystery to me
so I never know what to say.
All I can do is what
I continue to do
and hope I get more right than wrong.
Write, rite, right.
Words sounding the same,
but so dissimilar.
Kind of like her smiles
and sometimes her kisses.
But that is okay,
I will still take all of both I can get.
 
So I don't lose them...





She understands
stylized allure
with scripted strips,
fans and feathers.
But sometimes,
I have to remind her,
gently,
that bare breasts
offer a link to a certain sensual desire.
But so do morning kisses,
midday smiles,
and late-night caresses.
Dance for many,
dance for me,
but most of all
she should dance for herself.
But, I hope that she remembers,
it is not the dance,
It is the innate grace
that lets her dance.
The joy, the desire,
That she shares.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes she sounds jaded
in her desire.
Women are a mystery to me
so I never know what to say.
All I can do is what
I continue to do
and hope I get more right than wrong.
Write, rite, right.
Words sounding the same,
but so dissimilar.
Kind of like her smiles
and sometimes her kisses.
But that is okay,
I will still take all of both I can get.

Losing them would be a shame.

:rose:
 
Can you imagine,
imagine the world
that Poe lived in?
Assuming he self-censored,
redacting words
that left even him
in horror.
The horror.
Think if he could
phrase smells and sight
as gore mingled with sweet perfume
on hoary, horrid nights.
 
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