*She took off her dress. She had long black hair, a pale face, slanted
green eyes, greener than the sea. She was beautifully formed, with high
******* long legs, a stylized body. She knew how to swim better than any
other woman on the island. She slid into the water and began her long easy
strokes towards Evelyn.*
Anais Nin, Mallorca
Letter from Anais Nin To Sean
Every stroke is like the foundation
of Adam you pound and twist.
Make your **** shift from inner
to outer space. That way when you lift
you are not empty, while the air
above your *** has a crisp outline
--movements down inner thigh
easy to sway, a lilt almost, dark
reservoir where you are satisfied
before it happens, as you wait
anticipating that several blink.
Letter from Sean to Anais
When i kiss, my lips are tender and nibble
and my breath sweet can be heard in
that autumn forest as a river runs
down your spine; you are a mouth that licks
the back of my hand nibbling on my fingers
while I find the crease of your *****
and liberate the edges. You're a lovely,
fertile reef where impossible swans
hold my **** within the fireworks
spoken as light storms remember
the reflected grace of your mouth
and eyes when we stare into that abyss
that never stops so wonderful ***
rides our back to an ancient sea
forgotten when the tide pools break.
2. Anais
She had long black hair and when she spoke
the hair covered her eyes, and you cleared them
by brushing the strands back, slipping your ideal
into her mouth, her long legs drawn against your
anticipation of some deep distress when you finish
later, a great shark of a ship hunting the strokes,
spliting the pearl clam open with your
simple breathing foaming hurricanes,
when they reach half-way suddenly still --
the anchor falls through the splash
raging down our street released
to an undetermined depth.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC
Words have lost their meaning over time
The more the same phrases are used
Over and over and over again
The less their context matters
Like staring at a word for too long
It becomes nothing
The more we throw meaningful sentiments
Into a grammatical machine
Moulding them into a form
Most befitting
The more inevitable
Their fate
As feed for the fatuous void.
But what if words
Had no meaning in the first place?
Their context absurd
Relative to our personal emotions
We communicate
In perceptions
Condensed down
Into a finite set of sounds and symbols
How strange
We are all subject to this
It is inescapable
Words have our truths caged
Indefinitely.
I could say everything many romantics have already put into words
But that would be lazy and impertinent
Their semantics have dissolved
Worn from view
No matter how many voices
Echo what was once
A truth in history.
For my love, I would cast aside all language
For my soul is constantly dancing to a song
Of melodious candour
My mind wanders
Into his room
So warm and musty
And there
I am held
All at once
Words escape me
No
I escape words.
It is impossible
For you
To comprehend the way you make my heart move
Whenever I am in your company
But it is there
It exists
It is truth
I pray
You feel it too
Because then these phrases
I’ve strung together
Needn’t be spoken.
Poetry lives
To materialise our senses
Here is mine
So let us remove the shackles of our language, my love
And dive naked
Liberated
Into a world
Where only pure intuition resides.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
You lie
Perfectly
Openly
Honestly
Upon my bed
And while
I want nothing more
Than to curl up
Beside your flawless form
I fear
My essence
Sooted with vice
Rough with coarseness
Would tarnish
The sublime glint
You flaunt
So innocently
But
I know
The feeling is mutual
For perfection
Is arbitrary.
Diamonds
They reflect
Their effulgence
Is no weakness
For nothing can cut
Or blunt
Their brilliance
And I suppose
This is the lame
Metaphor
I have reverted to
As a demonstration
Of my ineffable
Vertible
Love for you.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
If only I were a painting;
a majestic work of art,
adored by all,
confined to the safety
of my canvas home.
If only my form
were a mass of oil shades;
intertwining, swirling, rippling.
My, how everyone would swoon
at my brilliance.
But, I tell a sad story.
And the critics prey
upon my light,
when a slight darkness
remains.
Like gold to a magpie,
they pick,
for my dazzling
and beguiling radiance
is too much an invitation,
when all I glow
highlights my worn edges.
My shadowy past
comes to the fore,
and I cannot retreat
into my home,
when there is none.
Everyone stares.
And I’m now careful
of my wishes.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:47 AM UTC
To be more
than the shame
staining my skin
a pallid shade
of grey,
would be more
than the dreams,
painting the windows
of my mind
with a rosy tint,
of hope
of chance;
it would be
all.
But,
is this pinkish-haze
from the comfort
of reveries,
as I’m enveloped
in velvety corolla?
Or are these
the malignant,
sardonic
barbs,
that foretell
my fate
as a truthless soul
in an honest
reality?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC