"pelvises" poems
those shiny plump cherry lips i adore,
their lipstick scent, my nose an inch away
as we approach, i lick them end to end,
they part, you gasp, a word they dare not say,
this moment, unexpected, they won't ruin,
reasonings, our seasonings our spice,
avoiding awkward explanations, in-
hale, ex-hale, minty breath sweetly nice,
now pressing four lips, squeezing pair on pair,
now opening now closing, tongues do taste,
my fingers combing through your long black hair,
saliva, corner lips, they drip in haste,
the slow warm wet worms grapple, intertwine,
massaging topside bottom side and side,
they slither round and up ecstacy's vine,
higher, higher as they deeper crawl inside,
as hands on lower back pull closer in,
two jealous pelvises also do kiss,
to grind the dance of passion and begin,
with neither of our parts ready to miss
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
The little girl slides into her slippers,
supple leather gloves for her tiny feet.
Her hair, though not the same copper shade,
still shows tints of auburn in the light.
I brush back a few stray hairs into place,
back to the nape of her neck, where mine stayed for so many years.
I gaze at my shoes in the corner,
the ribbons limp with depression, the elastic dog-eared and sad.
The satin is the dusty rose of evening.
I fluff her tutu and twirl her around;
Chaines come easily to her,
Just as they do to me.
And though even now I strike a picture-perfect arabesque,
no audience is there to watch.
I have passed the recital stage in life,
meaning I am a shut-down factory, left to rust;
no longer am I considered a ballerina.
No longer am I entitled a dancer,
but deep inside,
past the mismatched legs and crooked knees
and twisted pelvises,
I still am.
Her eyelashes blink up at me, and I grasp her hand
as the piano begins.
She sighs and ballet runs across the stage.
I wish the magic came without the reprimanding.
Her green eyes sparkle and her feet sing.
In my little sister, I see myself.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:21 PM UTC
my derelict third year in the drone:
a way to assuage what it feels to
function. to breathe mechanical air.
the rambunctious scent of morning appears
ill, confabulated, lysergic at most.
ladies in lithe dresses pose for pressing scenes.
taken photographs held up in loose light.
pelvises unloosening, ****** on the thoroughfares
fishing for trout as men, men as flowers,
lackadaisical graffiti dropping like simian jaw
upon visions of thigh. everything signatures a suture
so precise like a repair of the lip,
or the rapture of birds in impossibly blue skies.
news was that a fortune was coming in,
and I slept within the masses; dreams deliberately
vandalized and fragged.
they said it would be
marvelous. they said it would not ****
i see a woman
in her 20s. falling subtly, a gingham dress
sexed if not pullulated by flower-heads,
she said it would be darling
my third year in the machine.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
I escape into a volatile world with her
Tongues dance in delight
As our mouths lock
Our starved hands claw at our worldly bonds
Revealing the soft heated flesh below
Her soft voluptuous *****
Pure warmth and joy in my hands
As my fingers dance around her elevated peaks
Our pelvises divulge the urge to grate against one another
Like tectonic plates pushed to the precipice of fault
Blood coerces through my ever beating veins
My now rigid endowment pulsates to the pace of my heart
As my fingers now sink down between her heated thighs
Like an oasis to my thirsty finger tips
I glide through her
Sounds of her hushed groans fill my ears
As the desire to fulfill my thirst occupies the rest of me
I press myself to her scorching gate and enter
Lustful thrusts give way to a flooding of eroticism
Nerve endings pushed to the limit of their senses
Before eruptions of passion soften into tremors
The world around us evaporates and only our eyes remain
Fixated on each other
I feel contentment and a thirst for more...
-R
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC