My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.

Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.

My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.

Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.

You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.

Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***,
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.

I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts  from fountain-heads *****,
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.

With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.

To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******,
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.

When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****,
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.

Friday Night Fantasy**

The sky was a jade tangerine hue,
lightly sprinkled
with caramel colored stars,
while the moon
cried its silver beams
and a gentle breeze caressed your skin
making you shiver and smile
as you ate my eyes
with your temptation.
You swayed over me
dripping your sweet passion,
honeyed apricot nectar
over my tongue.
~~~~
I wanted you,
needed your movements,
your music
and poetry,
the haiku of your desires
and the way
as you spoke it,
from inside out.
All I could do
was rock with you,
my mouth savoring
your nippled senyru.
~~~~
I sang you a Friday night fantasy
of analogies, similes
and serenades,
mixed occasionally with
the raw desires of sexuality
and secrets of your femininity.
I was ablaze;
your name colored my heart.
I felt every silver moon beam
as you floated
and faded
away in the night sky.
You carried with you
all the poetry of me.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 5.6.16

Friday Night: It’s a **** Thang**

Smoke fills the air,
the sweet doobie scent
of high
times and
my fingers raising rainbows
as they travel across your naked skin.
Apricot nippled *******
brush my lips with
a music intoxicatingly
****** and you drip sexuality
all over me.
A love leaving me spin
in wildly exotic,
red lacy visions
of your mescaline funk
and lips on mine
driving me drunk with allusions
of your quivering release-
the  l  o  n  g  
s  l  o  w   version.

Oh no, “I don’t want a cure for this.”
As Diana says,
“Don’t call the doctor.”
I just need more tokes
on this sweet, sweet love.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 2.19.16

am a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding skin cells and lead from the no. 2 pencil in my saliva

am **** and blood, skin and hair, all come-go, return re-tuned,
at their own chosen speed, gen of regeneration

am cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon's decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle

you may kiss me with all your heart into a robust welcoming,
scorn me with spittle and deem unfit, I know the difference
and it is inconsequential

am, see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old birthday balloon, or an abbreviated haiku, that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing

think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of your
nippled forefinger,  but my powers are unlisted, therefore unlimited

for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensulating, such as
the temperature of your breath, the many disparate odors of you,
the curve of your eyes, the wetness of moist places

inputs that bear emergent newborn children notions in my
chested cavernous gas chambers, the bellum bellies of my brain

my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight ~ dawn when from wells,
the visions, the fluids and the words are drawn

they,
the residuals of a man's ******* between
other humans, akin, and the thriving discourse between
man and gods of invisible powers,  
that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the coded human DNA,
we exchange in silence from need,
to translate ourselves
to each other

Negroids will swarm into the country like locusts, ravaging all
things; taking liberties with snow queens; slathering vegetables
with hot pepper sauce; stretching out 10-pack packs of ******
with their enormous schlongs. And, Jesus will return
to wage war on the marauders: taking back the
******; diluting the hot sauce; dressing
the wounds of pink-nippled maidens.