Conversations of flesh and thought

[NivKay]

I’m here with no agenda but connection. I’d like to speak with women of any age—about life, about the sensual undercurrents that shape us, about the books and dreams that keep us awake at night.

What I hope for is conversation that moves easily between ideas and intimacies: one moment discussing a passage of poetry, the next wandering into the subtler ways we reveal ourselves.

I live partly in literature, partly in reverie. Words, I’ve found, can open as much as touch—and conversation can be its own kind of intimacy.

If you’d enjoy exploring both thought and desire, curiosity and honesty, then let’s see where our words carry us.

Niv

 

[NivKay]

Bumpity bump

 

[NivKay]

In my infinite conversation with myself, I am always writing things down, some, I care not for, others, I perhaps nurture. Whatever it is, they are all part of the detritus.


Your absence burns in me
like sun on the cracked clay pan.

I long for your burnished velvet
as dry grass longs for flame,
leaning always toward heat.

The red dust clings to my lips,
but it is your skin I taste,
it's salt, sweat, the shimmer of life.

I dream of your breast
rising like the crafted heat of the sand dunes,
soft curves against the hard horizon.

Between the mulga and the spinifex
I follow your shadow,
bare feet cut with stone,
heart raw as the gullies after rain.

Even the crows cry for you,
their black throats hoarse with thirst.

Your body is a waterhole at dusk,
deep and secret,
and I am the wild thing
that crawls down to drink.

This is endless, this conversation. Sometimes I think words are succubi....

 

[softbird]

In my infinite conversation with myself, I am always writing things down, some, I care not for, others, I perhaps nurture. Whatever it is, they are all part of the detritus.


Your absence burns in me
like sun on the cracked clay pan.

I long for your burnished velvet
as dry grass longs for flame,
leaning always toward heat.

The red dust clings to my lips,
but it is your skin I taste,
it's salt, sweat, the shimmer of life.

I dream of your breast
rising like the crafted heat of the sand dunes,
soft curves against the hard horizon.

Between the mulga and the spinifex
I follow your shadow,
bare feet cut with stone,
heart raw as the gullies after rain.

Even the crows cry for you,
their black throats hoarse with thirst.

Your body is a waterhole at dusk,
deep and secret,
and I am the wild thing
that crawls down to drink.

This is endless, this conversation. Sometimes I think words are succubi....

I loved this poem...australian gothic-ish

 

[NivKay]

I loved this poem...australian gothic-ish

I would never have seen it like that, but what an interesting thought...I'm glad you liked it...

 

[NivKay]

Bump