"gods" poems
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.
207.6k
Hot chocolate no longer tastes like chocolate
Tea gets me as drunk as wine
I get about as high on cannabis as I would rosemerry or thyme
The clocks in my house have stopped ticking
Though I never stop to check
There's a litter of stray kittens, outside my door, on the front step
Although time has stopped passing
And the gods have fallen asleep
I still find myself laughing
That I've wept to much to weep
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
In the digital l-and
We l-ive in
Mistakenly automatic
One pointing at a chest of tools
Eyes on i
No soul can tell a part a weakling metal
Robots robbing robbers rich
T-error terrifying t-errorists
Artist gods and goddesses
Sharing platform to unleashed gifts
Mint hue bubbles squeak
Fizzy dizzy violet haze
World head to toes spins
Any day it spins coins in change
A quiet girl is sinister
Siren of mystery or future
Robot is your mirror
Peach chin with teeth filter
No innocence and glitter litter
Guilty until proven the latter
A quiet girl a terrorist
Error mouths terror twist
Terrorist from the orient
They hide in between every end
Disguises they cover in
Racist as problem solving
Smile girl watch
A fake smile and eyes
Skin of steel so is her
Heart made alloy
How it blazes to the touch when heated
Oh it bites fingertips as it's cold
Hair resting on the curve of her spine
A woman's hair only breaks if it tries to grow
What she said
Tell me if you can tell us a part
Warning tears borne from her crooked eyes
Robot and soul
Terrorists from t-errorists
No soul knows either
Tattoos or memory shall identify you
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
The napalan man in a violet cape
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew
sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors
stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour
castle turret, archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo
ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified
battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war
gargoyles flock the terraced slope
pearly gates to bring on hope
serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
I am a miserable ****
Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
at grocery stores,
at parties.
I have no identity.
Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
to be loving,
to be trusting,
to be active,
to have no spine.
All I want is a bit of my own time.
A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
I was going somewhere?
I was unique?
I am the same miserable ****
As every other miserable ****
The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,
The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,
The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,
The girl sexting your boyfriend,
The boy sexing your girlfriend,
The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with
itself.
All different,
in exactly the same way.
Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable **** Traffic jam.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 9:28 AM UTC
They rest all over
whilst I was rooted to the ground,
the water acting like superglue
as my limbs stretched out.
Towards the clumps of land
rods of steal and wood weaved,
to connect and *****
that which we call humanity.
But there were abuse on the rods
formed by hands who'd calloused hearts,
poison coursing through their veins,
but not a single thought was given
for they were innocent in their brain.
Said limbs and rods spiraled out,
as nothing was left to chance,
intertwining everyone's destiny
in majestic flare and grace, grand
like a ballerina's dance.
But the poison was too corrosive,
the termites were too much,
as everything eroded, imploded,
crumbled and buried under
mounds of earth.
But today is different,
a new beginning, a new life.
As if the gods have willed
something better to arrive.
Indeed they came: Ports
forged from purity anew,
where fresh legs are delivered
and old legs whisked away.
For no matter how dark it
was, is, will be,
even during the night,
there always is and will be
a pip of light.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of
summer
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.
why is this?
39.7k
I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know:
her dress upon my arm:
but
they will not
give her back to me.
39k
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already -- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over --
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.
I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my tortoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.
36.5k
it's 3:23 in the morning
and I'm awake
because my great great grandchildren
won't let me sleep
my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the planet was plundered?
what did you do when the earth was unraveling?
surely you did something
when the seasons started failing?
as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?
did you fill the streets with protest
when democracy was stolen?
what did you do
once
you
knew?
I'm riding home on the Colma train
I've got the voice of the milky way in my dreams
I have teams of scientists
feeding me data daily
and pleading I immediately
turn it into poetry
I want just this consciousness reached
by people in range of secret frequencies
contained in my speech
I am the desirous earth
equidistant to the underworld
and the flesh of the stars
I am everything already lost
the moment the universe turns transparent
and all the light shoots through the cosmos
I use words to instigate silence
I'm a hieroglyphic stairway
in a buried Mayan city
suddenly exposed by a hurricane
a satellite circling earth
finding dinosaur bones
in the Gobi desert
I am telescopes that see back in time
I am the precession of the equinoxes,
the magnetism of the spiraling sea
I'm riding home on the Colma train
with the voice of the milky way in my dreams
I am myths where violets blossom from blood
like dying and rising gods
I'm the boundary of time
soul encountering soul
and tongues of fire
it's 3:23 in the morning
and I can't sleep
because my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the earth was unraveling?
I want just this consciousness reached
by people in range of secret frequencies
contained in my speech
©2003
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you."
Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.
The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.
31.5k
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in ***** sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ***
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ***
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.
30.3k
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
29.3k
1260
Because that you are going
And never coming back
And I, however absolute,
May overlook your Track—
Because that Death is final,
However first it be,
This instant be suspended
Above Mortality—
Significance that each has lived
The other to detect
Discovery not God himself
Could now annihilate
Eternity, Presumption
The instant I perceive
That you, who were Existence
Yourself forgot to live—
The “Life that is” will then have been
A thing I never knew—
As Paradise fictitious
Until the Realm of you—
The “Life that is to be,” to me,
A Residence too plain
Unless in my Redeemer’s Face
I recognize your own—
Of Immortality who doubts
He may exchange with me
Curtailed by your obscuring Face
Of everything but He—
Of Heaven and Hell I also yield
The Right to reprehend
To whoso would commute this Face
For his less priceless Friend.
If “God is Love” as he admits
We think that me must be
Because he is a “jealous God”
He tells us certainly
If “All is possible with” him
As he besides concedes
He will refund us finally
Our confiscated Gods—
28k
have you ever believed
in something so blindly
so genuinely
that the moment you realize
it isn't true, something inside you
changes forever?
i wanna tell you a story, see
seldom do i ever
go swimming in drinks
deep enough to drown in
but when i do
i speak in tongues
about things that none
of my memories
are allowed to talk about
like that christmas
at the isthmus
where my girlfriend
plucked a conch shell
whiter than gods teeth
out of the sand
held it to her ear
and stopped time
that day she was a shade of blue
the could've made the ocean sick
see, she loved to play jokes
when she held
the sea shell to her ear
she gasped, called my name
and said "i want you to hear this"
i said "yeah, right, everybody knows it's just the same old sea"
she replied "no. not this one. this one is special. listen. theres music in this one"
she handed me the shell
like a promise she couldn't keep
and i held it to my ear
with all the potential
of seeing shore
after being stranded
at sea for years
only to hear
a tired dirge of silence
spill from its emptiness
i guess she didn't know
how desperately
i wanted to hear it too
because ever since
something inside me snapped
now sand pours out
of every post card i open
i hear seagulls
in telephone static
sometimes i have dreams
where i bury my hands
in every beach
i've ever been on
and exhume this graveyard of noise
every time i try to sleep
i spit up fishhooks
and i guess i'm obsessed
but maybe
if i hold my ear
to enough vacant things
then i could have back
the time stolen from me
since it happened
maybe they would get it
if they knew what i wanted
when i blow out birthday candles
maybe they'll find me
face down in a wishing well
i watch eternal sunshine
of the spotless mind every day
pretending i can forget too
because this sea sickness
has followed me for years
because yesterday
i walked into a music shop
and all the pianos broke
but the only thing
i can think to say is
*do you know how bad
a memory has to be
that you fantasize
about forgetting it?*
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Somedays my thoughts shriek so loud that
they congest the rest of my mind
other days they chant lullaby's as if nothing
traumatic has ever happened
one moment i'm up
the next im crumbling to my knees
one or the other its consistent drowning with
no one to rescue me
I'm keen on telling myself its all in my head
at times, but
doctors tell me its all me
but for gods sake do they realize what horrid
phrases the voices scream?
death would be so heavenly
I long for the passing of sides
im awaiting to go home where its all
white and peaceful
i have days where im so narcissistic; I swear
I can commence the world as if every millisecond is
a luxury of sighs and sounds
at moments my dispute comes out so rapid
all i get is crooked looks and mumbles
some days, I love him
other times I swear he's the devil in disguise
during my manic episodes you spoke soft as if I
was a fallen angle that was overflowing with life.
You had mentioned a world that disculded me was a
world you cannot exist in
You said I influenced your heart to skip beats, that I
saved you, I was your fresh air
Once he witnessed myself during a dreadful episode
you declared loving me was exhausting and space
is what you desired for
hell could i control this?
he was the one isolated concept I could ever make
my ******* mind up about
I loved him;
I love him
he said that his devotion to me was similar to
staring into a black hole but seeing the reflection of the delicate sunset
it never made sense to him
BUT HELL DID IT MAKE SENSE TO ME?
when he stranded me, i couldn't help but dissolve in tears
i was nowhere adjacent to happy
but that's all I've ever comprehended
my doctor says they've observed a change
maybe its the sleepless weeks and collection of mood stabilizers
consuming pills in hopes to not feel so ******* empty
anticipating on my next manic episode
waiting for the door to open to go home
If I have learned anything from living with BPD
it is im constantly dilapidated upon everything
one day soon I hope to recover from this disorder
that replicates a loud room without recognizing how loud it was
and all I hear is the ringing in my ears that doesn't seem to have an end
some day this will be over
some day my lover will stay
I pray to fall in love with another angel again
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
A wild flight into drizzled dark night
The chorus line thumping
Overcome by roar and strain
Of metal tested to limits as we race
An endless risk disregarded as thought
And the sound of a bright giggle
Wondrous eyes lit in thrill of threat
Fear has no place in this setting
A manic gleam and set to her face
Sharing a secret as we laugh and howl
Because this is who we are
For all out control and desire
We scream endlessly through life eternally silent
Until we do not have to be
And in glory we release!
Fear is a thing to be learnt
A feeling to ******* and freeze
Is it felt here?
A resounding no! Shatters the question
In the screech of tires
In the surge of adrenaline
In the wild savage smile of freedom
Of a shout into the night in defiance of order!
Does my heart race as we tear around?
Not even a tremor! Until I turn,
My face from the moaning wind rushing past
And i gaze upon this savage exposed
Lips pulled back in ferocious glee
A focused and fierce glare to the world
We deny life and taunt the spectre
Come to us, we cry!
The paths are slick with tears of the gods
The roads tempestuous writhing in deceit
I sit in peace, relaxed
A warrior companion at my side
We know no fear of what may come
For trust
Ah trust
Is the colour of life
Ever shadowed as a challenge to endings!
She lights as a fire of the brightest stars
And i would embrace her
Burning endlessly.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
this is a tale
of two star-crossed lovers
with a love so powerful
they tainted the heavens
with bursts of colours
they were never meant to be;
mischievous little kids
finding love in sinful glee
in laughter, between dreams and reality
and though it was lawless,
they found solace
because in every prison,
they found a rhyme and a reason
but even for a love so great,
they could not escape
the fates’ wrath and envy
destiny pulled on their threads
cut them loose, thrusted them into misery;
for their memories were wiped clean,
but feelings remained as strong as they had ever been
the boy exiled in a far off land
across the pacific sea
the girl trapped in her need to break free
in a realm both boring and bland
ensnared in a labyrinth of woe
the lovers yearned for anything—
for something, for someone,
to obliterate this endless longing
the gods answered them
in the form of two loved ones
polished in every edge,
a perfect someone
but perfect felt too perfect
and not perfect enough
to fill up the hole
left by a perfectly imperfect
until one day the gods whispered
for the winds to push the two
and the birds to tug at their sleeves
over mountain and sea
even through the darkest valley
so their paths would finally meet
and so they did.
in the flurry of a moment
a pair of brown eyes met
and time was frozen
once more
the two stared intently
as if remembering a broken melody
a lost childhood song
branded as a wrong
the birds fluttered and flew
taking the cursed red fibre
snipped them in two
and the lovers felt all the lighter
it was the girl who spoke first:
**** the stars.
i don’t want perfect,
i want you.”*
eyes dazzling, the boy nodded:
*“we’ll invert the universe—
the night sky a blank white
the stars pitch black
the earth moving in reverse”*
the fates saw and surrendered
as the stars began to wither
for this love is love
in all its splendor
so the lovers walked away with a promise
under their breaths, they both swore:
*“i lost you once,
but nevermore.”*
****
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
I fight for the gods
To make it to Valhalla
Thirsting for sweet war
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
The sadness of losing
It's what's left
It was so true
to love you
It happened
but
I would love you ...
I would love ...
Come here.
Let me show you
I want to see
Maybe the hours ...
Or the mountains ...
perhaps
words,
I do not know
Maybe _ love ...
I stopped saying.
Stopped.
I resigned to love ...
the gods...
The flowers,
Kielos,
bit me
when i pulled them
To love you
Was like pulling a flower
I made you swan
The gods made me volcano
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
she had flaked away her memories
and stepped up
with a ponderous heart,
held by two gentle hands;
and saying goodbye, did she,
as she slipped off her skin,
for the moment blood stains
the kumari's tender soul,
bereaved, will she become,
for a goddess never bleeds.
her feet shall never touch
the tattered, naked ground,
for it engulfs and devours
and burns off the kumari's flesh.
holding her pure spirit, and
accepting a cruel death sentence,
her quivering soul
cupped but a glimmer of hope,
as the fire would flicker
and lash and whip
as her skin flakes again,
and the kumari vanishes.
but, if she remains unscathed,
blood shall be drawn,
and the gods will tremble and
her body will collapse.
the world will consume her
once again.
a kumari's blood,
drawn, now at death,
trembling and alone,
had she sobbed tears of joy,
for no longer the weight
must she bear in her heart,
of being a kumari;
but a kumari is she,
and the world has not chose her,
but she has chosen to be.
she had withered away,
heart no longer ponderous,
she stepped up.
and her wishes from within
passed on to the fearful others,
held by two gentle hands, and
with a gentle flutter of her eyes,
next to her charcoal stained skin,
had her heart stopped;
for her bejeweled crown had been stained with blood,
and the kumari realized that
she had died long ago.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
22.2k
Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC