"bacchus" poems
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Uncharmable charmer
Of Bacchus and Mars
In the sounding rebounding
Abyss of the stars!
O ****** in armour,
Thine arrows unsling
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
By the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke ---
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!
By the midnight of madness: -
The lone-lying sea,
The swoon of the moon,
Your swoon into me,
The sentinel sadness
Of cliff-clinging pine,
That night of delight
You were mine, you were mine!
You were mine, O my saint,
My maiden, my mate,
By the might of the right
Of the night of our fate.
Though I fall, though I faint,
Though I char, though I choke,
By the hour of our power
I invoke, I invoke!
By the mystical union
Of fairy and faun,
Unspoken, unbroken -
The dust to the dawn! -
A secret communion
Unmeasured, unsung,
The listless, resistless,
Tumultuous tongue! -
O ****** in armour,
Thine arrows unsling,
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
No Godhead could charm her,
But manhood awoke -
O fiery Valkyrie,
I invoke, I invoke!
4.7k
It didn't matter if it was
August, and the air felt like an
oven on broil, or if it was
February, and the dumpsters
were icecicles to the soul.
We needed ***** and since we
didn't have jobs, the cans, at
5 cents a piece were our
aluminum tickets to sweet relief.
The magic click.
Enough cans meant a bottle of
whiskey
*****
gin,
anything to dull the
sharp, vivid pain of life.
We sifted through
cat ****
catsup
***** diapers
discarded ***** mags,
and all the other
garbage from the
rich and the poor.
One winter morning,
I threw back a heavy metal lid,
and there was a fat
raccoon looking up at me.
If Bacchus or Dionysus were
smiling, we found a
full bottle.
It happened once in
a while during summer when
the college kids headed home.
Miles of walking,
freezing or burning up,
We were the aluminum
cowboys.
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 12:34 PM UTC
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings
To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow,
Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,
They who have coveted may covet now.
Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd,
The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature,
Where every voice (but bird's or child's) is hush'd,
And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure.
3.6k
I dream’d this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz’d to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv’lits were embrac’d:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.
3.5k
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white *** come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !
3.2k
They're a funny lot, some of these poets,
feisty feminists, dreamers, anti-money,
and even some who are very self-defecating
about themselves.
And then there's the literary, learned allusion lot,
and some who've got their eye on eternity, that's what,
and others who rub too much turps on the **** of their imagination.
But it's the long-winded poets who make me squirm,
and for god’s sake, give me a bottle of red wine when the ones
with blue-rinse hair get up to have their turn.
They're terribly nice, but they need an echidna
stuffed right up you know where - at least once, if not twice.
And give me another bottle of the red, even if it's rough,
or better still a whole case of that stuff,
just to protect me from those who bleed too much in poems.
Psychoanalytic stuff makes me paralytic
and I have to stifle groans.
But most of all, I like the poets with their tongues on fire,
the ones who lick lightening before they write
and who throw a sizzling poem down
like a thunderbolt from Zeus.
I like poems marsh mellow soft and bitter-sweet, too,
and those oozing with the juice. And if a poem's loud and flash,
so what? I like a bit of swagger, with shameless **** and ***
And sometimes, I just like words that rhyme with licorice,
Dionysius, Priapus, Bacchus and preposterous!
Also, what the **** a poem can even give offense.
Poets sometimes need to do this to stop indifference.
They call this poet's license, but really,
indifference is the only hell from which
us poets need deliverance.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mold of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of men and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
2.8k
WARNING
*Extreme use of profanities
and Gods engaged in an **** of lust
Apology in advance for any offence caused*
SL
At Freyja's Table
******* Gods everywhere
******* here
And ******* there
They ******* **** and ******* ****
Some ******* clean
Some ******* muck
They **** in heaven
And in **** in hell
Cupids got them
under his ******* spell
With ******* arrows
in their ******* hearts
******* priests
******* tarts
******* freaky super powers
******* torrential golden showers
The ******* sparks
******* fly
******* ****** in their eyes
******* Eris causing troubles
******* Bacchus blowing bubbles
******* Sif is ******* Thor
More and more
On the ******* floor
******* Gods everywhere
Tied up with their golden hair
Freyja clears her ******* table
Grabs any God that she's able
And ***** and *****
And licks and *****
******* breathless
Who ******* cares
******* Gods are everywhere
Discarded robes
that lay beneath
******* horns
and clenching teeth
They ******* ***
They ******* squirt
They *** again
Until they hurt
Steaming bodies
Sweaty hair
******* Gods are everywhere
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
It’s not much, I mean, but
uh, nothing, sorry, man I got butterfingers
slippery as my tongue, here
did you drop something, are you sure?
cause my thump-thumping heart dropped
so hard to the floor when it knew you were near
that it bounced right back up
right where it goes, then straight out my crown chakra,
only to dissipate and erupt
into Truth
the literal and the metaphorical
allegorical nebulas that resonate in full high-definition colour the way
all Nine symphonies played simultaneously
would look
sedimentary, like a cheesecake
when I first saw you, something
shifted in my horoscope with the same scope and scale
of a modern Greek myth – Prometheus rising, fire
in the eyes of one woman, that’s all
all Aphrodite could gather up—fix it to the mainstay, Odysseus
let’s get to it, in siren seas, eating weeds to survive
if there’s nothing left when Cthulu
comes alive, I hope at least
I’ll get to talk to you at a party
like, once, where we’ll mix some more
mythologies
Once Inana birthed the world, and Spider Woman showed her how
I could show you how Saraswati
makes music, and old Bacchus stays on his feet
Care to play my Isis? If that makes me Osiris
then drown me, chop me up. Throw my body
to Mr. Lucifer; the Morrigan will come to inspect your ****
and finding it satisfactory
will whisk you away somewhere better
How’s that last part sound to you, eh?
there’s not much left to waste in the techno age
of “nothing in moderation,” with all our
degradation,
defamation,
discrimination,
and mild inflammation caused by
nonspecific anxiety medications
in our nation of constant false elation,
so
my point is time
the one thing we got left to waste
is time, and I’m a dedicated pacifist, but
I wouldn’t mind killing
some of that, with you
Let’s blow this pop stand
and go hunting.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
it would have happened by chance that
Sigmund encountered Harry Houdini;
both infamous Ashkanazim intellects,
Freud expounds his theories to a sleepy
& restless Houdini; Freud seeing the
renown magician nodding off offers him
a hit of coke, which Harry takes grateful
& is soon asleep & dreaming of Freud's
weird theories of the mind seeing himself
as Perseus being guided by Ariadne's line
through a complex multilevel space that
defies three-dimensional perception; Harry
thus finds himself firmly in the camp of
the Symbolists, leading to the school of the
Surrealists & later, LSD-25 & some of the
greatest, most enlightened music of all time;
as Dionysus judges the underworld in a long
line of judges, from Thoth to Bacchus to Satan
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Innocence traded for
Fun, ***** and an easy lay
What more is there in life?
That's all I want by the end of day
I used to be so innocent
With good thoughts in my head
But now I'd rather **** than sleep
When I lie in my bed
Carefree laughter given away
For carnal pleasures in the night
Companions valued in my lust
Are tossed away at morning light
Intellectual ideas put aside
For desires of the flesh
And a new girl every night
Just to keep things fresh
I've buried myself far, far down
I don't know how I'll get free
And now I'm drowning in my lust
With no way out that I can see
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Do I splash
the pool of Narcissus
when I call you nasty names...
...even hog
the grapes of Bacchus
playing friendly bar-room games?
Will I squeeze
the **** of Aphordite
in my tippler's lecherous way?
...And will I challenge
her MIGHTY HERCULES
and find i'm in a fix!!!??
For i'll fear of meeting Charon
upon the under-river Styx!!!
Oh me, oh my, lions and tigers and bears
Oh oh my...
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
Beauty wears the cold breath of death
the way a ********* wears a smile.
Is this casual brutality a sign of the times?
Or have you watched the news in the last
24 hours?
The mirror sung a thousand prayers
to the God; now felt forsaken
with 31 flavours to his love.
They pierced your body
with their spears of love
and hung you up by the hair
to dry.
You recite your green finch song
to the deafness of those above,
and they still hold
your lace burdened hand
to quiet your sorrowful heart.
Lay your head upon the pillow
as tiredness takes us both
as the morning rears its ugly head
and the day becomes yours again.
Then raise your golden brow
to the freedom of Night Angels
who know your secret kiss
where all desires roam amiss,
watch yourself seek for home
in the city's barrio's and filth
down *** sodden alleys
where happiness
is spilled.
The Centurions of hunger
who's empty bellies predict
this shift of power.
By these shadows of delight
you don the mantle of delirium
It stretches down
to your wrists
and grows taut by this slip of Fate
your barrier of Morpheus
a tattoo by Bacchus
a scar tissue kiss of Eros.
Your beauty burned like an ember
that puckered my skin
My love wrote a sonnet
in invisible ink.
"Goodbye"
a silver bullet
that is tasteless
unlike your kisses.
And your finger slipped upon the trigger.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
The clustered, green orbs, glow with juice and lighted sun,
The leaves wave in the gentle breeze "welcome" to all, have fun,
But seasons ripe for theft and thieves,
Who would steal into these nights,
to remove the juiciest of these,
Bacchus treasures and treats with perfected age,
the hope of pouring a glass
of crystal clear bliss
could be gone, amiss,
by some who would crush the cherished taste,
and end this seasons harvest in empty sadness;
empty vine, oh the shame, the crime
of stealing grapes that belong to another's claim!
We have found the answer to our dilemma,
"Worry not dear friend, i will be there for you my eyes
are ever so watchful, and my bright white wing span will
cause even the hardiest mischief maker to turn away,
while my tail will beat and chase them
from
your grounds, God's vineyards
your bounty
this and every day,
until you pick your crop at its best
but I have only one humble request,
That you save the juiciest single grape for me
king of the Dragons, that fly."
©DWE082013
inspiration provided by photo
provided by Scott Olson
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
In the olden days,
the Roman days.
Women and men had *** in the farm fields to ensure the crops would be fertile.
Drinking wine, forgetting time, and reveling in their mortality!
Wouldn't that be fun?
Bacchus!
I smile,
turn towards him.
He snores.
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 10:37 PM UTC
.
Impaled with sunken eyes,
hung out to dry in the sun.
They crawled up the living crucifix,
struggling to be the first to see heavens' gates.
Wrapped into submission,
Bacchus prepared the crystal
wine glasses. His finest hour.
Temptation's seed hath scattered.
.
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 10:13 PM UTC
puisque les beuveries sont cruelles,
nous nous sommes couchés
dans le tombeau de Bacchus
mais il ne sait plus respirer
& moi non plus, d’ailleurs
tous ces anciens tableaux qui
me faisaient croire à sa gloire,
ne me satisfont plus comme avant
leur beauté est devenue banale
& je pense aux pétales de la Marguerite
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
The palm tree and the star,
...are always found together.
The branch and seed of man,
...bound by some secret tether.
All initiates in the mysteries,
...elicit a truth they find.
The palm tree and the star,
...are not just another sign.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.
The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.
This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.
Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.
All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so ****
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
Feel Me,an emotion deep inside your heart,
a meadow's wild white simple daisy,
reincarnated in a soft crimson rose,
a scarlet heart of velvet petals,
birthed in embroided silk of mystique passion.
A bacchus of wine filled with perfumed aroma,
in a vineyard of fragrant thoughts of you.
Feel Me,as i come in your night,a soft gentle wind ,
whisperin through your window,caressin your face,
kissin your cheeks,breathin you in sweetest dreams,
takin you in a garden,to a lake, where swans pirhouette,
as we lie down on a mattress of golden threaded leaves.
Feel Me,as we ride,on the open wings of love and fantasies,
Hold me ,as i get lost in you and you get lost in me,
as you drink the nectar of my cherry red lips,
as we kiss,a moist and warm wet kiss.
Feel Me,in the fresh liquid raindrops,patterin,
cleansing your worries away,as i pat your back,
as we walk in the park,as we talk,as I listen and understand,
as we giggle,holdin hands ,sittin on our favourite wooden bench,
under yesterday's lanternes of hundred dancing fire-flies.
Feel me,as we lay on the sand,gazing in each other's eyes,
cheered by tamed silver waves,watching the stars
Hugging below a universe of black ebony skies.
Feel me,as i dip my brush in finest oils,and paint a path
of coloured rainbows,where we can find each other once again,
a path where we can dream,where we can live and love,
where we will never be apart or scent the absence once again.
Feel me,in the candle burning never ending flames of passion,
a young lady,so deeply in love with you,Can you feel me?
My Beloved,Mon amour,Can you feel the touch of me?
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 11:11 PM UTC