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

In an age of braless nymphettes wearing lululemon
Who speak of unequivocal virtues
We seek **** role models and female superheroes
Ambition has no equal in all its atavistic ambivalence
Still we ****** our ******* feminine values into each other’s faces
Disrespecting our past predators and predecessors
And the pirate priests who prepared our souls for fiery salvation
In wartime circuses we are all pretzels and pantyliners
Who necessitate no changing stations for these gyrating giants of industry
And the gentle guardians of the spirit
With giraffe sized necks and human hearts that beat in their vulturous beaks
Who tear each and every naive feminine seeker into thousands of tiny pieces
Till all that’s left are precocious and imperfect targets
Seeking articulations of their convulsive
Nay, compulsive addictions to affection
With dinosaur sized scars and crocodile scales covering their erogenous parts  
We hide beneath a pile of beautifully styled business cards and good marks
Like we are a bunch of naughty children caught lurking in someone else's basement
Until the morning comes and we heed the need to once again impale our flailing limbs on another angry treadmill
While pilates preachers speak tender secrets from palaces of perfection
A hungry intersection of underwear and diamonds
When we finance our families’ vacation with blockchain investments
That eventually all end up feeding the same weapons dealers who control the world’s most vulnerable food chains
We are all deniers of the warnings of climate change specialists
Who liberate their minds with psychedelic toad poison
Moist as the dawn we overcame the wolves of oblivion
And covered up a significant number of Mother Nature's sounds that we abhorred for all the wrong reasons
Preferring fir-scented yoga rooms to an authentic forest floor covered in pine-needles, acorns, cones and a plethora of edible fungi
We’ve come to detest our own chthonic scents, senses and instincts
So we try to pretend that we've never sweat before
Exactly like a pile of compassionately discarded compost
Innocently left to rot in the sun for several weeks on end
So now for fun we back-bend over thundering volcanoes
Earthenware bowls asymmetrically formed in our souls
If all our pelvises tilt slightly to the left of west
Then the forest’s health is a direct reflection of our own faulty perspectives
And now you justify selling your soul for meager earnings
For next to nothing is always better than being wholly broke
Or broken holy or even sometimes just a little bit more hungry

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.

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.

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

i'm starting to get them...
         no, wait: i've lost the plot...
it's almost like...
alcoholics anonymous...
booo! booo!
  yep, *gatlin knows
about as much,
            and bolt was
the voodoo doll
   of the jamaican sprint
team...
     whatever they make
him out to be: voodoo doll,
genuine, to me.
but i listen to these
youtube reformists,
they "alcoholics" anonymous
and i'm starting to
pledge myself into pitying
them...
   they really didn't make
much of their own company
when drinking? did they?
me?
    of course i cry!
    you play me the most emotionally
charged piece of classical
music and i'm a wendy spencer
(whoever the **** that is)
   using up about ten tissues
to mind the niagara falls of
sentiment...
                what's with so much
confessing, and the complete
lack of enjoying the trip?
   am i going to repent for me
drinking?
               **** no!
         if you can't keep up,
then there's no point in
keeping you motivated...
  if you can't bask in a sunset
of a litre of *** with me,
        what sort of pirate r'ye?
go on, ******, frown,
frown *******, frown!
beat me with you ugly stick...
hope you get the ian dury polio
counter-effect...
      while walking down
cuntish town you thought you'd
call to safe ground via kentish...
kent's impromptu:
   essex can have the veg 'n' blush
  fruits,
we're 'eeping the flou-wares.;
hmm... a(n) english garden,
after all.
       whaa whaa... tongue tied
in the grapheme shared between two
words, hence the bracket "optional" (n);
aye! yo!
           big up kingston-upon-thames!
charcoal those jamaican
   colours, and make sure
i get i ****-churn at notting hil
filling station of jerking inflatables
of juggling hips and pelvises
            of the caribbean woo, woo-manz;
suddenly my **** turns
into a crisp dipper with a salsa
of fat *** and chocolate drip
               of ***** mush...
   nice thought, i suggest you try
it sometime;
boy, you ain't 'ave ah 12" dipper?
   don't bother...
   look for the girls with the boney a,
i mean via m... take them to the mass
with the altar being:
    and rodeo it was...
   i never knew i had bones inside
the bush of my *****...
                    evidently? i have!
gold goes to vanilla manila,
silver? goes to strawberry blush...
bronze? ah...
    you ever wonder why oiled or
wet chockies look so fascinating
bouncing off moonlight?
   me too...
          kenyan brown is beyond
what the western niger showcases.
if they just dropped the madonna *******,
       i'd still **** them drunk...
when she's naked
     and you're naked,
                          and you're drunk:
              it's no time to be a *****-loner;
tea-cups and napkins,
  invoking a respectable "repertoire"
can belong to the white girls,
   along with the ***** collection of
abbreviated lies...
             i got bored,
started to loosen up a bit,
    i have no motto,
        i have absolutely no ethical concern...
what comes along is better than
paying for enforcing an encounter via
the liberty of paying for it...
   trouble is... when you pay,
and she *******...
           that's a real ******* problem for her...
she wasn't supposed to enjoy it,
she was supposed to get paid...
              ha! transcending the "ethics"
of prostitution is not an easy feat;l
more painful for her, than for me,
    with that octopus-like squeeze of imitating
a circumcised ***** having pulled
the ******* back...
    **** me... i never thought i'd own
an aubergine... thank **** that also
means: minus the c-ring: two birds, one stone.

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

shame that the: giant *******,
doesn't translate back into:
a giant black ***
that you'd
inquire via
an elephant trunk
to funk... sorry,
****;
i swear there's a reason
why african women
have the excess of
buttocks...
at the same time,
i guess it must
be easier
to write a ***** script
with bone-ridden
european pelvises
and the excesses of choc
***** "projectiles":
white men can't jump,
nor can they run...
fair enough...
******* drown...
the meditarrean is a graveyard
had i ever seen one...
do i mind?
    not unless i'm a middle
aged middle class white woman
desperate...
    i better ask
for an import of chinese women...
i might reach the adequate
karma sutra conclave,
of a rabbit ******* an elephant,
+ the added cucumber *****;
that's how bulgarian ******
treat you,
they cite having ******
   black guys, and telling you
of the **** size...
even now, in the 21st century,
prostitutes are hardly worth
the money...
      nope...
not even the ****** these days,
are worth the money...
     i pray to god,
you become unemployed
in your "holy" trade...
  if this is what you call woman,
even among ******,
      i call you bankrupt,
not worth the trade.