Jul 2017
She laid on top of him with their bare skin kissing
and whispered in his ear,
"poetry is not only made of words
and all poems are not written down
poetry lives in our hearts
and dances on our breaths
it is all of Kubla Khan in the moment
before and after a kiss
it is the marriage of Blake's Heaven and Hell
and all his rural pens and pipes and Songs of Innocence
in a brief glimpse of eternity as felt in a single sigh
as our lovers have left our rooms and our hearts
it is in every word of fear and trembling
of Kierkegaard in a sigh of joy and grief
as our lives close chapter after chapter
it is in the bloom and the root of every flower
of Baudelaires fevered mind
as we lay and move breathless
in the hours of sin and decadence
it is there hiding under the skin
and the stars and gardens of a skirt
with pleasures waiting to be explored
by eager fingertips
it is there in the flesh growing hard
beneath a loosened belt waiting to feel
the heat and twist of a wet tongue and moist mouth
it is all the loneliness of the broken typewriter
without a ribbon and missing the metal head of the "v"
and the hard strikes of a mind gone mad
with too much to say and no way to say it
it is in the blood and the ***** and the bird
and the song only Bukowski could understand
in the way he understood things
it is there in the sounds of lust grinding and pounding
and plowing and slithering and sliding
our bodies into and over and under
and behind and before and above and below each other
it is there in the silence of dreams
of light and truth when we become more than
flesh and pleasure and delight and joy
where our souls collide and become one
with the thread and fabric and vibration of love
it is in these moments without ink and paper
and pages and books and unrecorded bliss
that we become words of fire
and poetry that lives and dies on our every breath
as we say more than just I Love You
without writing or saying a thing"
and they kissed again and fell into dreams
and sleep and farther into love without saying
or thinking or needing another word
and whispered in his ear,
"poetry is not only made of words
and all poems are not written down
poetry lives in our hearts
and dances on our breaths
it is all of Kubla Khan in the moment
before and after a kiss
it is the marriage of Blake's Heaven and Hell
and all his rural pens and pipes and Songs of Innocence
in a brief glimpse of eternity as felt in a single sigh
as our lovers have left our rooms and our hearts
it is in every word of fear and trembling
of Kierkegaard in a sigh of joy and grief
as our lives close chapter after chapter
it is in the bloom and the root of every flower
of Baudelaires fevered mind
as we lay and move breathless
in the hours of sin and decadence
it is there hiding under the skin
and the stars and gardens of a skirt
with pleasures waiting to be explored
by eager fingertips
it is there in the flesh growing hard
beneath a loosened belt waiting to feel
the heat and twist of a wet tongue and moist mouth
it is all the loneliness of the broken typewriter
without a ribbon and missing the metal head of the "v"
and the hard strikes of a mind gone mad
with too much to say and no way to say it
it is in the blood and the ***** and the bird
and the song only Bukowski could understand
in the way he understood things
it is there in the sounds of lust grinding and pounding
and plowing and slithering and sliding
our bodies into and over and under
and behind and before and above and below each other
it is there in the silence of dreams
of light and truth when we become more than
flesh and pleasure and delight and joy
where our souls collide and become one
with the thread and fabric and vibration of love
it is in these moments without ink and paper
and pages and books and unrecorded bliss
that we become words of fire
and poetry that lives and dies on our every breath
as we say more than just I Love You
without writing or saying a thing"
and they kissed again and fell into dreams
and sleep and farther into love without saying
or thinking or needing another word
