In fathoms
Between my flannel sheets,
There's no better place
To sleep;
But then I turn my blanket on,
Level Two
Is snug and warm.
Envelope-like we interlope,
Entwine and grind,
And grasp and *****,
Giving me rising hope,
This tug's gonna stay afloat.

Up now. Rise. Up periscope!

Dive. Dive!

Beneath waves and swirls,
Beneath flannel caps
To chests of pearls,
Now deeper,
Where life unfurls.

Our raging flannel
Seas
Grow calm;
And in the quiet,
After the storm,
We lie on
Our bedded sea,
My first mate sighs:
*I have to ***.

Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless ***-
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
the seams
effortlessly
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.

You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.

You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.

Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.

Made with love,  
            mixed with body chemistry.
            passionate energy.
            chemical reaction.
            satisfaction guaranteed.

I'm trying
to read poetry...
a new love for me.
My critic's heart
is not so harsh
since you came to me.
             You've freed me.
                                              But...............­...
I'm distracted.
I'm stuck...
thinking...
your hand in my  mouth...
the other on my wrist...
the blankets falling down...
There's teeth inside that kiss.

                         Even now
my breath is ragged...
my heart is quick
to send oxygen to my
                       (you know what)
and I....
know I love you for
          far more than this...
              but..............
OH
my
GAWD...
Did he just?
Yes he did.

And a smile wouldn't cover
how I felt with you last night.

Sounds like some ****, right?
Like I'm lost inside
some teenaged *****
and thinking only of my groin
but you know me more
than I know me.

I spent six years waiting  for this...
                                like it could be cultivated..
making love
instead of
making love.
Like the goal
was feeling satisfied
instead of
feeling **loved.

Streaming sunlight, what an intense, insistent lover!
empty catamaran dances in it's sultry embrace,
on the foam bed of gently rocking sea waves.
The dark shadow of this union finds it's kind of fun
swimming deeper, frightening fish roaming in pairs.

As we kiss,
Our hips like waves of flesh crash together.
Into one another they collide like two craters pulled in by gravity.
Our bodies connect like two streets at an intersection,
Lines "X" and "Y".
Your body as if a black hole ***** me in.
I ****** moving deeper with every movement.
You moan,
Such an ear tingling sound.
It slips through clenched teeth, only after climbing up your throat.
A song like no other,
Made only when your body is pushed to its point of bliss.
As we kiss,
Your heart races as if running for Olympic gold.
Your mind becomes clouded by a satisfying fog.
The sensitivity of our bodies skyrocket.
Our body's are overheated by our sensual passion.
Our hands intertwining fully making us one entity.
As we kiss,
Ecstasy in it's most unsullied state is reached.

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.