Basking in postcoital bliss, talking between the sheets
catching our breath, giggling with laughter treats

Laying in the afterglow, tangled in the sheets
sweating cooling skin, and completing greater feats

Blissful in post euphoria, feeling quite appeased
finding comfort in warm arms, putting me at ease

Still sighing, touching, tasting, nuzzled in content
reveling in the splendor, our minds and bodies, spent

Let me drink, this moment in, before we turn to clocks,
wishing only to start again, as seconds ticking  mocks.

Snuggling together, eyes and hands so locked
wishing for ourselves, more hours, on the clock

Wear your beliefs
Like a half-cross set irrevocably
On the tip of your tongue
Thirty silvers in sum

You hold doctrine
Like a sinner postcoital
Of an ecstasy
Wane and fleeting

as we lie sate,
in the sand.
postcoital
depression, begins.

this quickie, in
the sandhills, on
the beach.

well, while it
scratched the itch.
it left the soul,
bereft of connection.

we two just,
almost, known,
strangers,
made s.e.x.
lust,
the primary need
love,
a bystander,
at the freak show.

antipathy rises,
a dragon ravaging,
my soul.
as my co conspirator
stands, zips and staggers
away.

is the anger...
directed at him,
a rampant manniquin.
or myself,
an accepting needing
cavern.

darkness, wrapped
about in self doubt
i rise
and rearrange myself,
donning my disguise,
of carefree debutante.

i am the ultimate
partygirl.
i walk back to the
beat of the  music.
leaving behind,
one more scrap,
of my dignity.

A fontanelle, a division bracket connected

to other division brackets--castle

battlements.

A stimulating doodle that fills a Mead

Marble Notebook, whose cover keeps the

signal lost.

A banana in a trumpet, lensless

sunglasses in a darkroom.

Dot lightness, dot being--behind the ears.

Lo & lo beheld heads in the way of a

movie now playing in theaters

everywhere.

Where the irksomely awkward exit from

theaters, is witness to an audience's

who's who believing they're characters

from the movie.

Everyone avoiding eye contact, like some

postcoital comedown--secreting greater

star quality.

Imagine if they entered the theater that

way--our comings & goings have such

pole reversals, role reversals.

Hitchcock's bellybutton has a staring

problem, the guardian of this gate doesn't

approve of such rumination.