"unhooks" poems
HER *****
dedicated to Tamara
Her bosom...so swollen....so full
Bulging beneath her blouse
Straining against her huge nursing bra
I long to suckle her deeply, till the end of time itself
Her ******* thicken....becoming so *****
She sighs deeply....her let-down gently washes over her
She smiles...guiding my hands as we unbutton her blouse
Her ***** takes my breath away
Her bulging cleavage qiuvers at my touch
Engorged.....veined
I bury my face....my lust.... in her *****
Savoring her womanhood
She unhooks a cup....her huge ****** weeping
Longing for my hunger
I suckle her deeply....lovingly....wantonly
Her warm milk, life's sweet nectar
Flows...flows......flows...flows
Feeding my desire...feeding my love for her
My love for the warmth of her *****
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
What the Tide Knows
—a Sestina of one night shared with our sister moon
Night’s first blush leans low against the tide
that licks the sand; moonlight unhooks the darker seams of our skin.
The air stings sweet, crystalline breath of salt.
A feral moon, she leans close—silent, luminous, wet.
Her ******* dip the water; the water dips us—oh…slow pull
after slow pull—silk unraveling into constellations—we are, at last, bare
bare-foot, bare-hearted, bare-assed—every hush of fear laid bare;
satin chill a caress, sliding up shins, over knees, exploring the secret tide.
Between us, dampness trembles—a harp-chord plucked across our skin;
notes of brine flare and fade in the hush of moonlit salt
Desire itself echoes each pull she tightens—loosens—tightens again in the moon’s slow, intimate pull.
Night after night we bend to nature’s lust—its intimate pull
a deep, slow kiss—honey for dreams, our spirits once more bare
on a starlit shore that forgets and remembers the faithful tide
that knows each breast, each soft fold of skin
until our footprints shimmer, then vanish in a tidal pool of salt
while water’s slow tempo keeps time beneath our same bare-breasted, sister moon
Brine prisms drip between our thighs—soft, shimmering salt
as we sink into sand—breasts and breath—utterly bare;
above us, the hush of waves keeps time with the tide
while our sister, the ****** moon, unbuttons herself—O luminous moon,
her silver hand wandering, circling, stroking her own pale skin,
her gasps spilling down to embrace us oh so tight into one, shuddering, pull
Dawn’s silk-white wraps moon-bruised ******* gathering the last flecks of salt
that cling to lips—a hush of spent sighs riding every slow pull
of breath. Ocean-wet, sunrise-warmed, we rise wholly bare
beneath a sky tinted with our spent, satisfied sister moon,
and wade until cries of ecstasy between waves swell, matching the tide
washing footprints, sand, and shy shimmers from our glistening skin.
We become as one, a shared pulse—wave after wave pressing into skin,
A sousing of honey and ocean on lips—sweet with salt,
as night’s last breaker swells, arches, cups—one unquenchable pull
before it raptures. We bloom wide, throats singing, utterly bare
of nothing but vision of her white-hot spasm, our sister moon,
dragging us under—flinging us back—gasping—embraced by the heaving tide
O sister moon,
embrace our last slow tide,
your gentle hand forever filling our dreams, forever caressing our skin
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 6:01 PM UTC
Wind
unhooks her dress,
the dawn slips from her skin,
clocks falter at her parted sigh,
desire.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 6:29 PM UTC
And every night
she unhooks the
stars
to string them
'round her neck.
She can't decide
if she's making a
noose
or she's making
a necklace.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Unbelievable:
the weight of these itches and stings,
glitter in my veins.
Unbelievable
empty stare, I am not fair
game for the fox hunt;
Unbelievable,
the lying world they sold me,
what they made me give.
Unbelievable:
I can feel the pulse beating,
hear the lies in speech.
Unbelievable
mind's eye watching beyond time
unhooks the triggers.
Unbelievable.
Power I have over them,
bend until they break.
Unbelievable -
I can hear them thinking now,
smell their stinking fear.
Unbelievable
that their endeavors fell flat,
that I am now free.
Unbelievable:
they have nothing that I want.
All belongs to me.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Your breath, a silken whisper, feathered sigh,
A sweet note kissing, melting at my breast.
Soft fingers trace where tremors swell and fly,
The night's own song, our glistening body's quest.
Wind unhooks window latch—waves of storm crest
As trembling hands unhook lace—sway freely, all doubts.
Cool air fingers our moist bodies— caressed
Night rain spills secrets, our open lips—pout.
Scent of our love, petrichor, a musky earth perfume throughout.
Our windows slowly open, yielding to love’s refrain
Her love, a monsoon’s gail, I’m parched without—
Souls stripped to root by air’s cool, lashing reign
Through open windows, Gaia’s Haven breathes—
Her throat our cries, Her ribs the wreath they weave
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 6:53 AM UTC
Like a bird in cage,she flutters her wings for freedom
Prisoned in his devilish abode, she craves for attention
The Demon, bold and strong marked upon her his scent
'This is my territory and you are my prisoner
Never in my wildest dream will I let you free
as you are my only solace' he told her.
'I want freedom, in its accepted form'
Devasted I am with this imprisonment guarded by lust,
How can I unlock the cage to your heart,' she replied in a voice which trailed off into muteness
Agonised in pain
succumbed with misery,
She realised the path to his heart
Is one tough journey
The Demon made his appearance into her chamber,
Startled with his presence, she kept away her thoughts for later
For he came and pushed her
Kissing her passionately,against the wall.
Holding her up against the silky red plasters,
He worked his way to open her antique lace dress
With perfect dexterity,he unhooks every button
And plants silent kisses
She moans with pleasure
As he marks her with his teeth down her neck.
Lost herself to the demon of lust.
Not her mistake to fall in love,
Little did she knew the cost of love.
Such lust ; Such pain
The endurement of love.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
STANDING NAKED BESIDE ITS SKIN
(A SERIES OF SEQUENCES )
(1)
A CHAIR SITS IN AN EMPTY ROOM
The woman unhooks
her shadow
drapes it over
a chair.
She plucks her reflection
out from the mirror
stashes it away
under the chair.
She looks into
the mirror's nothingness.
She strips off
her skin
leaves it on top of
the chair.
She switches off
the light.
The chair just
sits there
absorbing the darkness.
The woman becomes
her footsteps.
The light from the bathroom
throws itself into the room
falls just short of
the chair's legs.
The razor blade
slashes through flesh.
She bites the tip of
her tongue.
She watches her blood
whirlpool down the sink
( she does not stop to think )
washing away the pain
washing away this self.
A chair sits
in an empty room.
(2)
THE MOON REFUSES TO SHOW ITS FACE
An owl is the darkness.
Only its voice is
visible
to the naked ear.
It gives voice
to the darkness.
The darkness says
nothing.
It lets the owl
speak for it.
The darkness transforms itself into the owl.
The owl becomes the darkness.
The moon refuses
to show her face.
Silence seeps back.
The owl says nothing.
The darkness says nothing.
A human cries.
(3)
MANY MOONS
she remembers an apple
standing naked
beside its skin
apple cut and cut and cut
like little slices of moon
fallen on the ground
the apple no longer a thing
to be eaten
now only a thing of fascination
the many scattered slices of moon
the earth a black sky
ants walking on the moons
she picks up one of the moons
licks it clean of ants and dirt
places it upon her tongue like a wafer
soon she remembers nothing
nothing
nothing at all
her life the empty space
where she had cut herself
out of her photographs
***
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC