Body Language

Running a hot bath, I get undressed in the middle of a cold gray afternoon, observe my body in the mirror. It didn’t snow but walking through the city you might have thought that at any moment soft flakes would begin to fall. The clouds were that swollen, thick, and low. The air was frozen with that strange sort of tension between patience and anticipation. Strolling over the cobblestone streets felt like moving through a romantic movie scene.

The skin on my thighs turns rosy pink when I sink into the water, that pleasurable sting when you warm your body right after coming in from the cold. I sip my wine and listen to the new Lana Del Rey. I know not everybody does, but I find her kind of glamorous romantic melancholy to be seductive and haunting. Love as tragedy, sex as a hopeful kind of destruction. Desire like a drowning you prayed for all your life.

The mirror over the sink fogs full of steam. Out the high window I can see the purple evening sky begin to simmer and glow with the tiny piercings of star light. I fantasize about biting and sucking on your nipple ring. Sliding my soft tongue along its steel hardness, making you moan at the sensual torture and press against my hips seeking friction, needing release. I touch myself and give my breasts a delicious squeeze.

Massaging the fancy shampoo into my hair, the price of which was something obscene but I was so taken by the sultry charms of the salon owner that I couldn’t resist the splurge, I imagine all my little inconsequential sins piling up like a snowdrift blown against a gravestone under the tall naked trees. I wonder if any of our choices really matter that much in the end or if seeking pleasure and avoiding pain is really enough to call it living.

If you had the chance to do it all over again, would you do it differently? Would you do better because you know better or is ‘better’ just another trap. Just another way out of reality and into a place that feels so safe you grow numb to the danger of dividing yourself into two. Del Rey sings like a siren about being left behind by her big strong man. Short skirts and full lips. Sadness as entertainment. Loneliness a sadistic kind of turn on.

Dizzy with the flush of steamy heat and Sauvignon Blanc, I rise from the tub, pull the plug from the drain and wrap myself in a warm white towel. Somewhere downstairs he is stoking a roaring fire in the old stone fireplace. Not a lot going on at the moment. It’s just that something in me wants to tell you about it anyway because if these small moments can’t be made to come alive then I don’t know what we’re gonna do but go completely out of our minds.

My Hands Take the Shape of You

The windows frosted with fog, the air sweaty and smug, I lift my eyes toward the morning mist which hovers low in the trees. There is something about the very early part of the day, before it’s really the day yet. This time when you know the light is coming but even when it first appears it is so gentle as to almost be only a suggestion of any kind of time at all. Nothing is pressing yet. Everything is soft, hums with the possibility of elegance, and elegance only.

Lover is a soft word. It has no other way to be. It is soft in my mind and soft in expression on the page. Inside the poem. Rolling down off my tongue like smooth white sheets tumbling lazily from the bed. It has been quite some time since I held that word with any kind of care, any kind of tenderness.

It is ten years ago or maybe more, and I want to be so tough. I want to be the kind of invincible they promise I can be with the right lipstick and sky rocket heels. Love is for the needy. Fear does not exist. To think back on it now is a swollen type of sadness, nostalgia but also grief. The curtains sweep back into the room, gliding on the faint summer breeze, sweet grass and honeysuckle. The fizz of the dawn resting cool on my skin.

Before there was you, I would imagine myself without being able to picture my face, my hair, my body in motion, walking into a room. In my memories, I did not exist in form only in concept. But now I see clearly my own presence. I can see my body draped along the mattress, my face has its features, my hair has its cascading wave. Something about the way you see me, piercing like eyes of extraterrestrial nature. You observe with a keenness. An energy which penetrates, resists distraction with a pulsing, strange sort of ease.

I turn in bed. I reach for my glass of water. I remember you like missing someone I’ve never met. The image of you against my palms. My fingers along the hollow of my throat. My hands resemble the shape of you.

Cigarettes After Sex

Your fingers trailing along the tears in my cutoff shorts as we sit in our small garden on a Sunday evening. Sadness and sweetness hang suspended all around us like twinkle lights. Tanned knees and crisp white wine. Behind my dark sunglasses, I close my summer sky blue eyes, taste the grassy notes on my tongue and thank god for foolishness, fools in love, fools for thinking any of this was going to last forever.

The problem is you distract me. Like the constant buzzing of the rattling air conditioning in the stuffy room at the back of the house. My mind flashes. It hinders, hovers, blinks against glimpses of you and I on the beach at night, the wilderness collecting our bare feet into the soft beds of silken sand. Darkness falling behind cranberry clouds.

I remove my shirt and straddle you in your chair, the glare of afternoon light stinging my bare nipples, now exposed and hard despite the scorching heat. The trouble is I can’t stop myself and the truth is I like the trouble that you are. Hands in my hair, gripping my neck, sliding up my ass, sucking me into you like water rushing the gutters when a late June rainstorm slashes the heat from the streets.

I rise like steam. I take your mouth with my mouth and forget how to breathe.

They took bets, you know that, angel? They bet against us from the very start. Thought we were full of shit. Full of ourselves. Lost in a fantasy which could only culminate in disaster. But what they couldn’t see was that disaster was the least of our concern. Our skies had fallen ten thousand times already. We taught ourselves to raise them back up.

The other shoe was always about to drop – that’s how life is. They were pointing out on the blackened horizon while you and I were behind them alone and on fire. We were the emergency. We were the only responders to each other’s alarms.

And you can hold your breath and shut it all down or you can scream with everything that you have, with everything that you are, with your whole body and mind and spirit, and your heart racing in your chest, you can scream until the pain of the deafening silence stops. You can fuck until the tears come streaming down your burning face and you finally feel anything but numb.

You can let it all out and let it all in and crawl broken and mighty into the arms of a love which promises everything and guarantees nothing. And if you are very, very lucky, your wild desires will find you a cave in which you can duck out of the fears the world is trying to sell you for a while.

Just as the wine seeps warmly into my soft gray blue blood, you bend my body over the wooden table and make me ask for what I want.

Let me hear you say the words.

You, baby. Please. I just want you.

Summertime Madness (audio)

The chirping birds and I watch the world with our beady eyes. In the back of my mind there is a humming that just won’t quit. Anxiety. All the little birds all around and around in the trees which tower and sway and clump together like giant beasts, and the noise which is so relentlessly pleasant it nests in your ears and drives you mad.

You imagine me like a small butterfly in your palm. You watch my wings, my colors, my tiny antennae probing in all directions. At the center of the earth is your heart on fire with a kind of smoldering passion. The dark parts of what makes you up begin to pulse to life. I wish I could write something worth your time. I would like to bring forth a story, a world, conjure something up that fits perfectly into the cave of your most burning desire.

The trouble is when I picture you in my mind, I am always just a little off. I see not you but through you, as if you exist but only barely. Perhaps I am the only one who can see you. If that were true, would I know it? Or would you?

You tell me talking nonsense will only exhaust my thinking and amount to jitters and aches in the end, so instead of taking you too seriously I step barefoot into the garden and light the last cigarette from the pack I swear will be my last but promises are pie-crusted and broken, it always seems, when entrusted to my own hands.

The summer is hazy as it caresses my bare skin. It’s too hot to do much of anything except slink into the cool pool water and stare out across the brittle sweet grass. The clouded sky above me is as blue as a robin’s egg and exactly as fragile. Do you ever find yourself remembering my lips on yours? Sometimes I do. I fantasize about the way you take your time stroking me. Your hands and your scent and my weakness for your impossible strength.

I take a swallow of ice-cold gin, examine my thighs as they part silently underneath the crystal water. My skin is the tension of a cracked eggshell sky, and it all buzzes in my brain like a sunlit agitation.

. . . .

Perhaps not the best recording. I just wanted to open my mouth and feel words come out. It helps me somehow. I guess to feel real. Whatever that means.

Autumn Erotic

He lights her cigarette and spreads her legs as wide as they will go before unzipping her skin tight jeans and leaving her there, exposed, arms behind her back, in the straightback chair.

Her boots are rich tall buttery leather, heels like towering city buildings.

The upstairs attic room is rustic textured dark wood and low gray-gold lighting, as outside a large open widow, the autumn evening drapes its muted oranges and yellows, deep greens and chocolate browns, down along a mountain range swathed in thin white fog.

She watches him as he moves expertly about her, she is motionless, yielding, as he pulls roughly at the holes in the torn denim at her knees, ripping the soft fabric open further, revealing sudden peeks of taught porcelain skin.

Stealing her cigarette, he steps back to observe her, naked from the waist up, strawberry hair cascading down over her pale smooth breasts. He curls his lip into a sly smirk as he blows smoke in her direction, the taste of sin and spice, and her crystal blue eyes flash with the electricity of what it feels like to be observed, objectified, studied.




Under his gaze she comes alive, a graceful animal, heightened, within the wilderness of skin, bone, exposure, excited by the earthy scent of the coming darkness of night.

Made to sit still, obey, arouse, pose as instructed. For pleasure. She is a mysterious gift, a playful nymph, a work of exquisitely tousled art, fine sculpture, ribbed, malleable clay.

He knows it is the limitations he places around her like invisible restraints which will penetrate, cause her to overflow her wanton cups, mouth, lips, eyes, hips, sex.

She leans back to shake the blazing waves of her auburn hair, just to feel them whisper against her bare back. She needs to be touched. She needs to be pet. His pet. Feel his generous strokes of affection. Protection. Command. Encouragement.

Sensing her want as it crackles in the air between them, he stands behind her and gently places the cigarette back in her mouth. As it grazes her tongue she bites the tip of his finger – teeth digging hard into his delicious flesh – and he drags the force of his palms along her jaw before tugging her hair tight inside his fist.

She arches her long elegant neck and struggles against the hardness of the chair. The divine torture of the friction it creates causes her to moan aloud.

That’s a good girl. Let me hear you, baby. 

His hands trace her collarbone, then move in unison over her breasts, caressing, kneading, pinching her nipples to stand fully erect, obscene, as the molten heat turns to liquid lava between her thighs.

Moving the sweet pressure of his touch down along her aching skin, stopping for just a breath at her navel, before skimming the thick fingers of his right hand over her throbbing, swollen slit.

As the evening sun slopes quietly behind the purple of darkening mountains in the distance, she is wide open for him.

Her ragged panting hot against the pulse of his neck.

A living, breathing, silent primal beg.




[A note to my new and long-time readers: I write so many different kinds of pieces on this blog. I love to write erotica, but I haven’t felt compelled to do so in a while, as my nerves have been so very frayed by the current societal scene in America. Just this morning, though, I came across a gorgeous image of a woman posing nude in front of a window which looked out at rolling mountains covered with multicolored autumn trees. And I was suddenly deeply moved to write this piece, to me it is a celebration of our inner and outer seasons, of our truly ecstatic nature as erotic human creatures, wanting for the pure trembling joy of expression, exploration, adoration, and the kind of intimacy which sparks the flickering fires of lust. There are many kinds of freedom. I want them all.]




Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy

Turn On

Something in the precise words you use to describe the sharp lines of a powerful city you’ve just been visiting half way across the globe makes me believe that if you took me to bed you would know exactly what to do to make me come undone. It’s not just the body it’s the mind and you are quite the master of twisting both so as to cause every nerve ending to stiffen to attention. The way with those eyes you penetrate every breath I ever took until right this moment but now I don’t care if I get five million more or ten I just need you to keep talking. As I listen, patient and impatient like an itchy cat studying the movement of her prey, you tell me about the natural and constant chaos spinning itself outward further and further into the outer most rungs of the universe. Nestled in the dim candle light glow of my living room, it is well past midnight, there’s a half pack of cigarettes, various bottles of wine, and the many stacked rings on your fingers are flashing like planets in a small distant galaxy as you motion with your long thick fingers toward the glittering night sky out the window. The wine having sedated me, I’m trying to follow the course of your lesson which sounds more like a boyish aspiration, a tale of adventure and discovery, I’m falling into the vast blackness of the shirt you’re wearing, the leather belt you have fastened lightly around your waist, the charcoal smudges barely visible around the rims of your tired eyes. You love women almost as much as you love yourself. To hear you tell it there have been any number of them, each one languid, beautiful, in possession of a sweetness which can only be birthed of both strength and submission, not to you necessarily but to a passion which you are uniquely able to stimulate between the two of you such that everything else becomes meaningless and instantly falls away. Though you have never been mine and likely never will be, something strange inside me rejoices to know of the lust you treasure for these women, for yourself, for art, for the magic inherent in life itself. Because you understand science, you understand chemistry which means you understand how to manipulate, to agitate. Experiment. Control. Study. As the words fall softly from your wide sensual mouth, I imagine you are tired but ignoring it, the whiskey has you humming inside and all I can think is nothing and all I can feel is every cell in my body suffocating with desire. Tell me, stranger. Tell me everything you know and everything you dream about. Tell me your secrets. Speak to me of the laws of physics which cause the stars to spread themselves like a glistening womb, mysterious, dark, pulsing, eternal. Your voice grows low and you are nodding off and I’m losing you to yourself as I always have and always will. How I wonder what it would be like to crawl inside that mind of yours, to see what you see through the mad brilliance of a man who loves so many things, who finds himself in ridiculous awe of a world I only want to leave behind at every turn.

// Fall for You //

You and I
delicate devils
murderous angels falling dustpink
upon the footsteps

of the dark

as I dance you eclipse me
your eyes along my slenderbones

moonglobes thrust into orbital

kiss this grievous heaven
erupt in the mouth of this sweetpain
love as grace as you puncture

rupture resuscitate
my heart.



// The Bluebruised Heart //

I had tried to speak to you
but the trains all fell from their tracks
and the sky seemed to bleed
its bluebruised heart

between the words in my mind
and the numbness which
grabbed stiff hold of
my tongue.

So if you could just be patient
and not give up on not
letting go
I swear I will be coming home

and it will be so soon
and it will be so crushingly beautiful

like our toes in the
dunegrass and the tiny birds running
along the ocean sunlight

I know that right now it is quiet
in the night
as you feel the heat
sloping itself through open summer

Tender sweat has dampened your
alabaster skin
like tears
a whole body cries.

I know the silence hurts more than
any other
But please remember

I am still here, my angel.

In the stillness of the moonlight
in the handwritten pages
you hold to your
In between your sweet breathing

and your bothered
fitful dreaming,
you and I
through all the words and beyond them,

and beyond them

we are forever bound.



// You Come to Me Like Wine //

I have never met a man who
chain smokes the morning light quite like
you do. Reads my lips over
coffee and cream.

Who swallows the sky just
to make love to the rain.
You hanging stems from the

ceiling for me: basil, rosemary,

Your skin is the fading of amber
opening the arms of twilight,
drips hot and slow
upon my tongue
at table.

I crawl weightless
upon your knee.

The shape of my shoulders
is the way you taught me to dance
in the deadheat of night
dressed only in white linen

Your voice sifting the shadows down
across my fading afternoon
toes. Your song comes to me
like wine.

Setting fire
to the pages
of words left unspoken,
unfolding the bed
discarding the poetry.



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