Feeling your body is just not enough
I need to feel your soul as well as your touch
Kissing your neck I feel your body tremble
Feasting on flesh our bodies become nimble
Exploring lust soaring I wanna know every inch
Tasting your juices while your nipples I pinch
Your pleasure I want to measure with my love stick
As it disappears into your mouth so hard and thick
Our motion like the ocean chaotic and wild
I'm a farmer you are a field now let me plow
Into your lust bringing you an orgasmic rush
No limit to our pleasure as our bodies crush
Rhythmically doing our own erotic dance
As we discover new ways to make our love advance
Becoming one in sexual fun as I fill up your thighs
Juices run as we cum together and stare into your eyes...
Kiss your girl in thick of it,
The lush green chaotic knot of jungle,
Kiss her all night long,
To the tune of the hyenas' choral screech,
Take your girl to the river bank,
And spoon water into her parched mouth,
Point out the flocks of gulls that come to rest,
Near the hyenas across the pond, who wait for you.
Sit with your girl on the cliff tops,
And watch the amber sunlight pour into the clouds,
Kiss her perfect lips,
And ignore the hyenas' stares.
Walk your girl to the open plains,
And mishear her calling you her boy,
For the hyenas' are far too distracting.
Leave her there, for them.
Less like, Peace the fuck out,
more like, I gotta go.
I'm leaving the way ships are wooed by waves,
under the pretense of more promising continents.
I can see where countless hands have pulled at my shoelaces,
wrapped my arches in ribbons of origami,
left me second guessing how well holes burn through soles.
It's been a long day of finding breathing space between double-knots and bending
broken fingernails back into place;
the self-constrained chaotic embrace of something supposedly so
straight as string brings forth beckoning ghosts of
those figure-eight souls who laid themselves
to waste their Sundays tracing the Hills
on the breath fogged side of some painted-shut window sill;
trading the promise of Infinity
for the Religion of Monotony.
Praying through agoraphobic day-dreams
raining across the night sky of their eye lids
with the brilliance of meteorites,
imagining how earth-shattering they could be
if only these tyrannosauruses would just look up.
I have come here;
Less like, conquest
more like, exploration.
--Abandoned the comfort of quaint, suburban
ruins of the American Dream, which buckled
like widows knees mid frail-voiced eulogy
mourning the death of their Salesman--
and wandered aimlessly into the improvisation of some story-book jungle,
wishing I was better rehearsed.
I have come here
to congregate with the snakes and beasts; to feast beneath
the din of carnal sin and primal instincts. I've chosen to begin jumping
from stump-to-stump like stepping headstones
in a graveyard of fallen trees, where men,
who grew up too quickly and forgot the importance of fictional stories,
who learned early on how to black-market trade
the need to imagine for something a little bit more
who, smiling through serrated teeth,
saw it fit to clear this wilderness for something a little bit more
But thank god, these brambles grow so thick!
For every hail Mary their metal tongues would lick
into the trees' skin, a hallelujah of vines and branches and roots
would erupt in confused medley,
and their finest mathematics couldn't begin to calculate
the thriving division of a place so ungoverned by logic.
In a jungle plucked straight from storybook pages
I'll band together with these untamed brutes
--these feral barbarians and unbroken monstrosities--
to howl at the moon with the effervescence of a Ginsberg poem.
We'll forge a tinsel-town crown and take turns
playing king of Where the Wild Things Are found.
See, unlike concrete cities
The Wild of Atavism has never forgotten that
Tradition is a catalyst for change
and that nothing is permanent.
Hell, I've been having laughing contests with a mountain
because every now-and-again he will crack
A smile, and when a mountain laughs
He does so, so gutturally,
From deep within his catacomb chest that
the whole Earth quakes -- everything shifts--
And I'm not gonna lie to you right now,
I've sort of got my heart set on being a part of something so
So if you follow,
shipwrecked and mapless,
your shoelaces strapped tight
and run off the infinity of double knots.
If you go looking for me, continue
past the paint chips, through
the open window;
Set your sights to the far treelines.
And don't strain yourself listening for
the laughter of mountains,
Because when that stoic disposition
Finally does crack, you'll feel it in your feet
no matter where you are.
And from the way his ridges are crumbling,
I think I've almost got him beat.
© Christopher Voss
You persuade my lungs to breathe for a purpose.
An instantaneous drop of perpetuation.
The thought of my eyes opening
and your smile not there to pluck hearts from my mind
puts a black cloud of deterrence over my soul.
I am yours.
You may think you know how I feel.
You may think that my love has a limit.
I am afraid.
I am afraid you are wrong.
It makes living that much harder.
To hope our script has been written together.
That I'll be there,
Waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.
I rather not look upon another persons eyes ever again,
and tell them the simple three words,
that have driven me to a chaotic perfection
because I would not be able to.
not be able to love.
As much as I love,
But there is one last whisper.
For if our script does not have us in the final act,
it will still have been.
And that is worth more than a thousand heavens.
For when my lips laid upon yours for the first time,
it was a beautiful poison that has been forever placed into my heart.
It's a very merry time of the year
sez the Irish Rovers.
And I have to agree,
magical about the fiddle,
it sounds so joyous,
but I do ponder
the deeper meanings
of such cheer.
I see holiday packages
and cases of beer
stuffed in the windows of cars.
people seem robotic,
like it's a chore
to be so giving.
One guy just flipped me off
for not using my blinker,
he must have been drunk,
that's the spirit!
"I don't wanna wake up."
Whispered words upon a pillow
Behind closed lids and waking dreams.
"You have to."
He says slowly rubbing his hands
Firm upon my back
Only then sparks begin their gentle warming
as hands become fingers slowly trailing
Beneath covers and over curves
Playing games of sensual allurement
"I don't wanna wake up."
I quietly whisper
as he opens my eyes with a deliberate answer
There is no speed to invigorate, just gentle coaxing
Kisses so subtle upon shoulder and neck
Silence is golden as there are no words to express
The stimulant advancing with a passionate relish
for the bathing of souls in an exuberant connection
squeezing, massaging, chaotic awakening
Dazzled with fireworks that are temporarily blinding
Moans of desire and soothing tenderness
As fires explode in an awe-inspiring togetherness.
"I don't wanna wake up." An escaping whisper
"Now you've no choice..." he chuckles in my ear
I don't have epilsepsy
but I almost did
Gazing upon illuminated radiance I could not understand
one side shown favored, and another was darker
It only makes sense in sips and gulps
So do I drink it slowly
But if I ever chug, I decompose
into chaotic spin! -- the many elements that make me
Further I down the tea, the more love is apparent
God I love my lover, and through her, the world!
Or is it the other way around? I don't know
A wise Sikh once told me there isn't much difference
As he said this, he was holding his golden spear
His knuckles dusty, skin drawn taught against his bones
Intwinde in bliss
Cold and still
Chirps and flutters
Pecks and squawks
Bursts of breeze
Cold winter chill
Melding with the trees
One with self and earth
Hours pass, soul calms
Peace in a chaotic forest
One with nature and self
Death floats and spins
Only to promise life renew
There's hope in the decay
As a seed is planted
In my heart and soul
The deer pass by in stately grace
Squirrels hustling to prepare
Birds dancing on a wing
And my soul sings
Cleansed once again
For another year
True love of a son
For his earthly mother
Truly whole, truly one
Is a man with a plan
To cash in a bit of Kensington
On some high grade booze
Cos right now he's got a couple of scores
But not a great deal more to loose
You see, our Dan is a master of the modern day quill
He works an open office, clocking in and out at will
But after reading all the greats from his and every bygone age
He lives in a time where the mp3 subverts the written page
So night and day he hums away
Searching for that hit chorus
And he knows you can't cut corners
When it comes to tanking up on creative juices
A Desperado is larger beer spiked with tequila
Some say it's for scoundrels to make charming girls easier
But our Dan's quest is noble.
He has a dream we'd all like to believe in
He simply wants to do his whole life’s work in just one evening
And a Desperado seems to conjure all six hats within one head
So if two minds are better than one...well, nuff said
He dilutes them at first, pulling the wool over his own eyes
Until, catching reflections on the glass, he sees through the disguise.
And before long you'll find him chugging straight from the bottle
Then, in a blur of paper and pen, Dan writes like there's no tomorrow.
He writes and writes and writes some more
a couplet, a bridge, an underscore
Ploughing verses like trenches through the virgin white paper
Dropping napalms just to see what pops it's head above the wreckage.
Then, surveying the new landscape, he quarries in every direction…
Linearly; because it's most straightforward like that
Circularly; because they used to think the world was flat
Logically; because... Well duh!
Laterally; which gives the brain a stir
Diagonally; some kinda a + b = c rap from back in the day
In reverse; because sometimes we unknowingly face the wrong way
Down dead ends
Just to see the view
He picks up clichés and looks under them for clues
Calls for desperate measures
As the evening wears on
He indulges all his earthly pleasures
And down they go with a Yo Ho Ho
What a dirty desperado!
Dirty I say! Now he's mixing with rum
Still his pencil flies with a blistered thumb
'E starts to drop 'is H's
And forgets to cross his l's...sorry t's
He paces back and forwards
An he talks like mushy peas
Rummaging frantically through chaotic pockets
Conjunctives falling to the floor
He can't find the word he's after, but who cares? There’s plenty more!
He begins to vengefully split infinitives in two
And hurl metaphors across the kitchen
Sending mountains of screwed up balls of paper flying
Like snowballs after the thaw
Which slowly melt into puddles of lonely vowels and consonants.
Long after he has gone.
But all that was before the "Doodley Dee"
And his dream came true with a change of key
The song which people can't help to hum
From OAPs to the I-generation
And people hummed it all over
And in all sorts of weather
Until someone decided we should hum it forever.
And they paid Desperado Dan for every hum
Not bad work for a blistered thumb
So now our Dan seems a lot less desperate.
From time to time he evens finds an hour or two to rest a bit
Sitting on the veranda of his studio in the south of France.
Applying the finishing touches to another comedy romance.
Sipping a very fine Sauvignon, no Desperado in sight.
They're all safely packed away in the cellar
Just in case he gets the urge
Late at night.
Traversing the pit of tartarus/ where we shall dance with the devil/ and the chaotic madness of the ravenous hordes who trample those old souls; would be heroes that sought vainglory/ not willing to suffer sacrafices needed/ counsel from the wise ones not heeded!/ we determined spirits war into the sunset as one unit, one mind, one force; we are legion. We are legend/ as we contend with the monster that hail from black mist/a dark sea of death and carnage/ and even though we appear to be battered and bruised, we are never beaten