I make love to you;
exploring your body like
a garden.
I walk in the
lovely shade of your eyes;
that safe sky that I
long to fly in.
I dream of swimming in
the blue, and diving
hard into your wet pink soul.
I want to sink to the
bottom of your orchid, and
lick the nectar from
your swollen petals, like a
hummingbird--all beating heart and
pounding wings, as I let
the juice run down my bearded face.
I taste your sweetness in
the new morning sun.
I feel immortal,
and I wink at death.

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.

Our life lives inside
her.
My walnut haired angel;
my freckled dreamer.
She's swollen and sensual;
beautiful beyond spring.
Far above the ocean's light.
I want to take her to
a meadow and make
love to her with the
breeze and sparrows watching.
I want to taste the
sticky sweet dew on her
thighs, and wake up next
to her for the rest
of my life.

Every time she
kicks me out,
she throws my stuff
away:
my clothes
my books
my poetry.
I'm broke like
a toad.
I can't afford it.
No bother--she just
throws it all away.
No apologies.
I come back, and
ask, "Where's my stuff?"
Away...
Far away.

She worries about
everything;
real and imagined.
"What if this?  What if that?"
I watched my
Mom
worry herself right
into the
grave one disastrous
December night.
My girlfriend doesn't care.
She wants me to
worry right along
with her.
And when I don't,
she gets angry.
My Dad used to say,
"They can **** us,
but they can't eat us."
I share this with her.
Nothing!
Just
worry, worry, worry.
"

Drinking has been an exercise in
lunacy and sorrow,
like jumping off a cliff,
for tomorrow's dead dreams.
The fruit of the vine should
be sweet and sentimental,
like mamas and moonlight.
With a fistful of memories and
a soul full of pain,
I try it all again;
I chase the phantom.

Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.