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Tonight I have an appetite
I want to merge my body
With your soul, and become whole.

To converge upon each other and
discharge our urges until spent
reemerge, renewed, unhurt, purged.

With sleep slurred words
I tell you that I love you
You stroke my hair, and murmur

I love you too hummingbird
Content we fall asleep entwined
Our urge confirmed in love.
© JLB
A heavy sigh escapes my lips
I need your seed to feed my need
Your taste still lingers on my lips
Your hands still feel moulded to my hips
Your absence has made the bed go cold.
Our heat has dissipated between the sheets
My greed for you makes me want
Your absence wants me to hasten your return.
I cannot call you, but I need you now.
Only you can help me regain feeling where
numbness resides, to feel the pressure of you
on me, in me. But you are not mine, I am not yours
We are both wanton ******.
I concede my place to second, no gold band upon
my hand, my conscience makes me short of breath
Indulgent, wanton, sumptuous gratification,
if thats all we are together, then fine, I accept.
But, I need you now, and always.
© JLB
Disturbed sleep leads me to a
Neurotic daytime, to
Chaotic thoughts
of
****** nightmares, me and a being
Exotic sights, reality disturbed
Hypnotic states
of
Scintillating salacious
Wanton ness, night after night
a heavy weight upon my chest
of
rough hands and
Growls of need
Ruttish, sluttish behaviour
descending into
Lustful need of fulfilment.

This hypnotic state is not as
Wonderful as it sounds
The fear is overridden by
the  orgiastic events,
but the knowing of its return
night after night
descends into  madness and fear.
How do you escape the unseen ?
How do you stop wanting the feelings it provokes?
How do you stop you? and your stormy need?
Your base desires are feeding this demon
This demon is feeding you.
To break free, the route is simple
Don't be there when he comes.
Go to the river, wash the sin clean,
Sleep in the river's depth.
© JLB
My lover is a vampire.
Before you laugh I
need you to discover
how he became, firstly
a vampire
and secondly my lover.

He discovered me, alone
walking at sundown
waiting for the day's end.
Truth be told, my end.
I'd planned on lying down
in the long grass of the
sand dunes
fall asleep under the stars
and awake no more.

Summer was at its end
Cool breezes had returned
so when I felt the coldness
at my neck I assumed
It was summer's end
whispering goodbye.
Instead the words I heard were
"You don't want to die"

I thought a sculpture was talking
so cold, so perfect, so smooth
his appearance.
He whispered again
"You don't want to die"
How did he know?
Was this an hallucination?

"Let me show you why you don't want to die"
Immobile I lay as still as a corpse
he touched my head and
images raced through,
of him kissing me, loving me,
through the decades past,
my family, then them dying too.
I felt my tears on my face
thinking of my selfish gene
that suggested me dying.

With a gentle caress he kissed my face
I smelt decay, I recovered and saw
What had saved me from the incoming tide.
A structure of a man
so perfect, so beautiful
I discovered that I wanted him
more than death.

A hunger welled in him and I
He held me, told our story
then goodbye.
My summer lover had to go
the sun had returned
"Take me with you"
Was my plea
But along with the oncoming sea
he swelled my heart
then let it go.
Just like times before.

He kissed me deeply
and promised to return,
sulphur clung to his clothes
invaded my nose and as surely
as I walked to the shore,
He was gone
He was there no more.
© JLB
Sweet fragrant offbeat smells and sounds
accost us as we wake in the oversized bed.
Sheets have been crumpled and creased
thrown to floor in a white pure heap.
Your warmth next to me is almost too
much to endure, I can see the sheen of sweat
coming from your very pores.
Sweat created by the Spanish sun and our Spanish fun.

I look around the suite, and sweet memories flood
through me, the heat of the night as we arrived,
dishevelled yet ready to concede with our pleading
bodies. We cannot retreat just surrender to the crisp
white sheets, inviting us in.
How we tried to be discrete, but it was too sweet
we tried to contain our passion, but it was a lost cause.
This was a country used to the rhythm of repeated pleas.

I run my nails down your sweat covered torso
here we are complete, we are one in this, the Spanish sun.
You turn lazily to look at me,I see the fire is still burning
I know I'll get another treat, Latino fiery ness has emboldened us
In this anonymous suite we compete with each other's affections
Like a matador and a bull we display, and play with each other.
Broiling in the sweat covered sheets we concede defeat,
we fall asleep not by the moonlight, but by the blaze of the sun.
© JLB
The tiniest piece of dust
that's us
No more than an iota
"until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law" (Mt 5:18)
Our hopes and dreams become anecdotes.
Glittering, sparkling silver particles
dancing freely with an abandonment
not seen since childhood.
Time elopes freely, either quickly or slowly.
Dependant on our experience with it.
Is there substance to time?
Are we it's substance ?
Us, the spots, flecks, mites and motes of humanity?

Time erodes what once was
Law, pain, pleasure, life
We remember items long turned to dust
A scintilla of us remain along with our one
grain of thought, lest we forget, we are just
sparkling dust floating around waiting to land
to be turned into the sands of time.
Shoals of grandiose people
ignoring the sermon on the mount
The mote and the Beam.
We see others but not ourselves
We see dust but do not clean it
We see sunlit motes dancing
But we do not dance for after all
For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
—Matthew 7:1-5 KJV
© JLB
This spiteful poem has no title.
That doesn't mean it's not entitled to a title
it just means, it hasn't got one.
It's not in any way vital to title
a poem is it?
Without a title, would a rival thieve
the poem?
Without a title, it means there is no
subject matter. Does that matter?
I guess at a recital a title helps,
it introduces the poem to an audience.
Let's face it, the poem is not going to get
suicidal if I don't give it a title!
It's not going to go all homicidal, suicidal,
or self harm.
Will it sue me for libel?
Am I being frightful?
I think it's delightful that this poem
has no title.
Maybe, what I should have titled this poem, was
"Poet being idle".
© JLB
She walks down the corridor
back straight, immaculate.
Heels tapping a regular rhythm
heart beating a tattoo of nerves.

nerves

She can hear the wishers of spite
whispering, sneering, delivering splinters
of withering, scathing remarks at her back
behind masks of smiles and false friendship.

friendship

She hasn't been aboard a ship of friends
in quite a while.
Transistors in her head have picked up the
whispers, the predictors have spoken.

spoken

"She only got the promotion on her back"
"Like she has the qualities for the role"
"Well she does have qualities for a roll!"
"She does like rolling on her back!"

back

Back home, she sits at the mirror in her room
shivers whilst remembering the sniggers and
whispers. The slingers of whispers and dirt
have hurt too deep this time.

time

Time has passed, and the only dirt thrown
Is the handful by her sister, on top of the box
her sibling lies in, lies in because of lies.
She espies the work colleagues, watching and grins.

grins

Grins because it's not often you see the twin
of a suicide victim.
The victim of evil whispers, furthermore
she starts work in a week, with these weak whisperers.

**Killers
© JLB
If love is a shape then
Love is  circular
Maybe it's why a ring seals the love
between two souls.
Maybe it's why a mother's tummy is round
maternal eternal love.
Maybe it's why love is unending
no beginning,no end.
There is no beginning nor an end to a circle
the simplest of shapes
one a child draws first,
a circle can be hollow
then filled with love.
Love like a cancer grows
like a **** it creeps and stays
fits like a glove
flies on the wings of Doves
Quickly, love can turn rough
to mush, to fluff,
but that circle still stays
beauteous never superfluous a
Mellifluous unending eternal circle.
© JLB
We are the tellers of our own story
The makers of our own destiny
We are the sharers of a cast
The cast of us
A stellar reservoir of superstars
We don't appear in magazines
We are the figurines that stand in life
Watch dreams get smashed to smithereens
We follow the theme of living, occasionally giving
Kissing,wishing,missing,loving,kicking,killing
Anatomicall­y the same yet unwilling, fearing living
Whilst each of us unique we all are composed of stars
We all hold within us the chic mystique of being human.
© JLB
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