I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.

She tastes like
a sunset, and
smells like peaches...
succulent,
soft.

Moonlight breaks fast on our
windowsill madness, while
passion kisses us in
the white-hot heat.
Her ****** is a
stranger strangling me.

Medusa turns men to stone.
And I'm rock hard
three floors up.

When I explode,
I'm
like a butterfly
floating into the sun.

The honey on the
wet orchid glistens in
the sweet afternoon light.
I softly lick the
petals and the bud.
Her sigh is like a
symphony.
The emotions pound through
me like an Ocean of love;
like a river of madness.
The juice sticks to my soul,
and I want nothing less than
to give her breath and life.

I've said it before,
I'll say it again.
Writing is *******
It's like coming.
When I haven't written anything for
awhile, it's like going
without *****.
I need it, I have to have it.
And when I'm writing a
poem, it's like ***.
Depending on the
piece, sometimes it's hard
and rough--*******
in sweat drenched bliss;
toes curling at the
point of ******.

With other poems
it's softer, easier.
It's her on top;
deep long kisses
caressing each other's cheeks,
looking into her eyes;
her long hair dancing on
my face to a slow  waltz.
Or something by Bach or Beethoven;
candles lit, incense burning

But more often than not,
it's me on top
pounding it in;
scratch marks on my back,
guttural moans, then
finally
******!
Sit back, smoke the
lonely cigarette
and wait for
the next ******* session.