I meet you
each night
at the silent room,
where there is no sound, but
the pounding of your own heart.
No touch, but
the tantilization of your skin.
No smell, but the
subtle scent of your own arousal.
And no music, but waves
after waves of tortuous delight
hitting your vulnerable shore
until you scream your silent scream,
as you perish into quiet oblivion.

And *** is a meditation,
a mystical experience,
a hypnotic state
from which there is no escape.
O pilgrim,
engage all your senses
in carnal mindfulness.
Use your eyes,
see all forms as Buddha.
Use your ears,
hear all sounds as Buddha.
Use your nose,
savor all smells as Buddha.
Use your tongue,
taste all tastes as Buddha.
Use your hands,
touch all flesh as Buddha.
Let yourself be lost
in this passionate pilgrimage.
For in the white heat of ***,
the ego melts away,
and the animal returns.
In the unification of opposites,
there is no self.
There is only One
in this wild sea of senses.

It doesn’t interest me how “proper” or respectable you look.
I want to know if you are willing to risk
the disapproval of your peers, family and friends,
to articulate honestly what ignites your passion.
It doesn’t impress me highly educated you are.
I want to know if you truly know your ****** self and preferences.
Not what society wants you to love or hate,
but what your soul is genuinely drawn to,
even if it is deemed “perverse” or politically incorrect.
It does not matter to me if you are gentlemanly or ladylike.
I want to know if you dare to reveal the animal in you,
despite what is taught by your religion, your moral upbringing.
or the tribalism of your own ***.
It does not matter to me if you are popular or shunned.
I want to know if you dare to stand alone,
to be ostracized if need be,
in defense of what you know to be natural, good and true.

Sunday morning I bask

by the window of a French café

Soaking up the sun.

Frigid night,  I gaze

into the winter sky and

dine on stars and ice.

I wake up this Sunday morning,
the sky is grey as it can be.
Winter has descended and
made barren all the trees.
But in my heart a gentle fire is glowing,
for last night you were with me....

From my plane's window,
thirty thousand feet from ground,
the clouds resemble the floor
of a winter desert,
bleached white and sterilized
by the glaring sun.