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HB Oct 2010
Let me lean into your hair and breathe in your warm, clean scent.
Tackle me with tickling fingers, knock me over, make me squirm.
I'll nibble on your neck a bit, and make a ***** joke.
You'll drag me up and down the block, till we've searched out every coffee shop, and reading nook, and weird demented new-age store,
With scary guys with scary hair leaning over the counter offering you 'Fairy Dust' for good luck, or maybe this book about trolls?
Then I'll drag you back down a different block, and through the city and all the buildings.
Looking up and up and up.
Falling over our own four feet as we race the dusky-shadowed building monsters from one end of the bay to the other.
Exhausted by our chase, we stumble into yet another hole-in-the-wall to steal some warm recuperation.
You wrap me up in arms and drink, while telling me all about your life.
Then you **** me for details of things I never talk about, and make it seem like no big deal. I mean, hey, it's only you after all.
Next you grab your camera in one hand, and my hand in the other, dragging me back out the door, already clicking fast the shutter.
But it's night! So what? It's the city, there's light.
So you keep right on clicking and posing and grasping at figments, air where you think you might best find a shot, that would hold me to you on the screen later on.
You keep clicking and clicking, till I finally get tired. Then you, sensing me, make up for my sudden lack of enthuse, and drag me further to a club strobing with lights.
We dance there for hours, till the club's shutting down, catch a yellow-topped cab, rumbling and slow. You hang up your camera, I hang up my coat.
Time for a movie and popcorn, hot chocolate in bed. I'll fall asleep, wrapped in comforter, my pillow still breathing. You might wake me up, after the movie is finished, just in time for a few pre-dawn kisses.
A few hours sleep, my head tucked under your chin. Dreaming separate dreams, together.
Our limp-tangled limbs greet the shade-prying strips of sunlight with unconscious aplomb.
HB Oct 2010
To write with tongue in pen,
Saliva dripping ink.
The heady-remembered sensation
Of flavors long forgotten.
Sifted with fingers floured,
Arms limp from kneading
To have them
Penned to perfect succulency.
Until they are coined to smooth and creamy texture.
The rich-written smell of impatient waiting
For oven-crisped words, over-penned with
The salt and pepper of a final read-through
Always spelling disaster to our over-spiced and cooled,
Now cookie-cut words.
The souffle sinking deep in the pan of it's paper-page dish.
Till loving eyes scoop up that first tender-tasting bite,
Till the sound of a thought drifts over two lips
With a satisfied sigh.
Our long-awaited, frustrated, penful recital:
Experimental, new-dished-out, tempting
Bellies full, read-through finished, enough of the sauce.
We clear the dishes with the simple act
Of turning over the cloth,
To the next blank page.
HB Oct 2010
Dead dog sleepin',
Lyin' down.
All limp, and melted
On the ground.

A twitch, a snort
A slurp, a *****.
Seems to me,
You've got it ruff.

On rocks or mud
Or feathered-down,
This dead dog's sleepin',
Lyin' down.
HB Oct 2010
Open wide the doors of your arms,
****-hands turning with a long-lost key.
Raise the sash of your windowed eyes,
Fluttering lash-curtains hiding you from me.

I want
From your hands, comfort.
Rough-gliding touch chasing demons on my skin.
From your eyes, truth.
Deep-buried wisdom found in your secret glancing.

Give me
Fingertips of pleasure.
Glimpses of your innermost.

Bring me
Hand-in-hand to a park bench at dusk.
Moist-rimmed, back from the well of undoing.

Catch me up,
Safely bound within your arms,
Locked tight in your embrace.
Hold me there,
With just a glance-
Swift look upon your face.
HB Oct 2010
I after-taste like french fries,
I here-now taste like gum
All minty-fresh and sparkling,
Going plip-plop on my tongue.

The fries were nice and hot,
With a crispy outer skin.
The burned my mouth a lot,
But I kept shoveling 'em right on in!

Now my tongue it kind of hates me,
And my mouth it is real sore.
So I'll get a Wendy's frosty,
'Cuz soft-serve chocolate's insta-cure!
HB Oct 2010
A shot
    to the mouth.
A blow
    of words.
A moment
    of silent intake.

    to wonder
What it was?
    that caused this,
His mistake.
HB Oct 2010
The whispered sweet & sour taste,
        of smoky bottled kiss.
The perfect feel of silken flowing
        drifts upon our lips.
A tingle, smooth and sliding feel
        burn drifting down our throat.
A glass of rocks, all empty
        sure, slow reaching for our coat.
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