The whole is divided into six sequential parts reflecting a six night odyssey. It should be read as a unit, but time restraints allow for interruptions at the logical divisions, the last one being the finale, the acme, the climax. . .
Part One
The Overture to the First Meeting
He looks into the mirror of her eyes
to see himself in hers
the looking glass
reflecting his selection
of the perfection
that he sought,
it seems, forever.
The image touches his reality
with the whisper of her existence
floating by like cirrus clouds
enveloped in the strata stream
which shapes its essence
as it wills;
and she conforms playfully to his dreams
and pulls away
before the mist of panting breath
fogs the whole picture in the night
of his eternity.
Her AURA blasted outwardly
and sucked him deep
within her plumage,
he, entranced by the phantasmagoria
that overwhelmed him,
like TSUNAMI,
and, breathless,
remained transfixed,
absorbed in the mystery of her variable self.
Her wings dissipated the cumuli
that draped themselves quietly
over two souls unembodied
in fleshless essence
reaching to each other
pointlessly
exploring emotional tangentials
upon which to build a wall-less fortress
to protect themselves from each other's
harmless volleys while images meld cold heat
and rain sunshine torrentially upon their
oxymoronic existence.
Then, they meet, all the silent words unspoken
rashly tumbling onto each other
one trying to impress and not offend
or seem too fond too soon,
the onerous flood of meaningless words
trickling sufficiently
drop by strenuous drop
into a critical mind,
he, trying to enter,
she, forcing back his overtures
(until she can digest the whole
panoramic view of him),
tick-tock, clickity-clack,
racking up the points in favor for
and those against beginning an unending
relationship.
Time is friend and foe:
(if only it would just stand still)
he thinks, and she is in full control of him,
without a word, and he is still compelled to beg
for time because he made her queen of him.
She accepted and he must wait for her
until her hunger comes again,
and he lies starving at her feet,
he, the flower, she, the bee
(strange roles for them):
She had been stung before
and he felt stingers even more.
She beckoned, and he came to her,
and played with her,
and smiled while running alone,
together,
with candles on the beach;
and she prayed he would not come too close too soon
because she changes, like the Juliet moon,
and would need to make him go away
so she could play another day
with someone new.
Part Two
The First Impressions
The mist of his dream lifted
and he saw her, luminescent,
smiling,
but not to him
for she knew what she had
and what she wanted
But, he didn't know that
and he saw her
for what she SEEMED to be
and he knew her
for what he DREAMED she'd be,
what he wanted her to be,
and she just smiled at him
as he watched her.
She moved little.
He watched those little moves
with interest,
and she smiled
because she knew he knew
she fit the mold
of HIS picture of perfection.
Then, she spoke.
The words flowed honey-like, sweet,
like whispers from his very soul
(whatever THAT is, he thought)
or from his data-bank,
the list of expectations
for his ideal mate
(if not too late);
and the robes fit
not only her but also him (his dream, that is)
and thrilled him with that gut-wrenching jolt
he felt
when something, someone, felt just right.
And she was tall enough,
distributed finely (or so it seemed,
because first looks could be SO deceiving)
and she smiled at his ultimate satisfaction
because she knew he knew nothing about her
and she smiled at his naivete because he "LOVED"
(whatever THAT could mean)
what he saw
(or thought he saw)
and fell hopelessly in
interest
with her, in her, for her
and she smiled at THAT thought
because she was in full control of him.
So, she smiled teasingly
and touched his offered hand
(it was the ONLY thing to do
under circumstances
where no one ever could say NO tonight)
and moved with him in syncopation
to sounds and idle conversation,
and he burned within
because it seemed to be too good for him
and she smiled as she held him close to her
because he wanted her (he thought),
and she was in control of him
and it felt good to hold him close
(no matter WHO he is)
because he seemed so good
to her, for her, with her
and could be thrown away at will
because she had control of him.
She knew him well
because he told her,
and she smiled because she had control of him
and she told him little of herself
just scattered thoughts,
and he listened
and heard his nightmare vanish
with the silence of her different past
and he smiled wanly
because he knew the night was short
and all too soon
she'd disappear into the mist of the dream
he never knew he'd ever have.
Part Three
The Second Meeting
The dreamy vision reappeared
ghostlike wisps emerging from a nether world,
and he was there, still, to receive it;
and he reached his willing arms to her,
but she refused again, as always,
keeping him on line with hooks attached,
absorbing, enjoying, whenever she desired him
(he never had refused advances that she made)
she was the beauty, he, the beast:
she, young , slender, soft, too delicate, and BOLD
he, old, obese, hard, too unrefined, and COLD
without her warmth to cradle him
in just his dreams
from which there could be no escape.
So, he dared closer to remove himself
from his reality
into the aether region of herself
and he hesitated (his mistake)
missed the Carpe Diem by that one misstep,
and she vanished in the whispered breath
with which she first appeared to him;
he knew she would inevitably
like atomic half-lives always reach and never touch
their ultimate deaths penultimate life
like half of one consecutively striving for the final zero
never reaching it -- like her, he thought
without her, ultimate death, towards zero
but with her, only half-life for she moved away from him
with equal steps,
and he touched her hand,
and floating ribs (in ritualistic dance),
the shell of her existence,
while heaven (peaceful rest) enveloped him
(she smiled again while reading thoroughly his eyes
and commented on those dreamy looks)
and she seduced him through his very dream --
then left him standing by himself
until she decides if she'll return to him
tomorrow.
Her spirit dissipated into the nether world, again,
and he was there to capture her in words alone
because her body disappeared and nothing there was left
but his imagination and dreams that need no life to live.
Part Four
The Wait
He dove into the sunset
just to set with it
because there just was no one else to sit with at the time
so, he chose Aurora burning as his resting place
and he waited
till the dark beset him with its shadowless lightlessness
and he could see nothing
because no one there was there to see;
but, he waited
closed his open eyes to wait for dreams
to get kick-started
and they did with something new
and someone old (not age) just used
a time or two before,
sometimes an extra
where stars were few in the blackness of the lightless stage
of nightly dreams that gave him sustenance
because no one there would feed him
or cared to
because they were waiting for their OWN dreams to materialize;
and HE just wasn't important enough for her to wait
though she was life and breath
and he, life, then death,
and nothing more.
The dream became reality
where she opened up herself to him
and he listened because
well, he might awaken,
and her ghost may truly have dissipated into
the nether reaches of
timelessness.
He never knew for sure.
Part Five
The First Private Meeting
Beethoven rages in my head
as if the orchestra were seated
somewhere
in the cerebral cavity
(above the medulla oblongata)
while you sit six feet from me
yawning over textbook info
someone says you've got to know
to pass a test you have to take
to get a grade you ought to make.
You're not Virginia Slim;
but, it, smoking,
juts out from fingertips
and you suck on it occasionally
to break monotony
or think a moment just to cloud the issue
more than it is already muddled.
Oh, it's NOT a cigarette? A pen?
Ah, my mistake. You see, I cannot see too well
in such a smoke-filled room.
Mirabile Visu, you allow the text
to ooze from page and page and page
to somewhere in a tiny convolution
pressed into service
just for this occasion in your head.
Your eyes wander, then peruse assiduously
more content than you are content to bear.
Your body is impervious to anyone,
anymore,
breasts still, at ease (at my attention),
(staring at the tiled floor),
while your visage I adore
watching interactive parts
(flesh and bone with hair and more)
a combination (liberal arts
could make no better form)
irresistible to stouter hearts
but cold to some and some too warm.
My x-ray eyes can fantasize
unclothe to show me
all the creases
etched with time,
muscle tone,
unbroken bone,
and tendons stretched (tight sinews)
and hairy crevices,
dry -- now vacant --
waiting for the moment
for no one, yet
(moistness waiting in the wings
of labia majoris, minoris or other things
dry now, calm, but waiting to be wet),
waiting,
and I see the tibia form,
and fibula,
and a femur rush to ischial cave
with pelvic ridges on the hips
(my eyes and salivating lips
urging daydreams not to roam
too far from what you are or seem to be)
and I watch you still not seeing me.
Your pages turn
my manuscript of you,
re-written with adoring eyes,
pages open, each page lies, openly,
musing possibilities of fantasy:
I hold your body close to me
to feel the pounding of your heart,
(unfelt, silent)
the gushing blood, the salty sweat
permeating pores, and wet-
ness oozing where
my dreams
in rhythmic syncopation
flow,
coming both together,
we, upon the flowered bed,
where first we loved
inside my head.
Part Six
(The Night of April 26)
Night swallowed day, wholly,
beacon full gleaming (lunarly),
chorus of stars in audience,
watching, listening to two souls
embodied in their human flesh
cooing to each other's promises;
and they wandered proudly
to the center of the ring
embraced to Diamond words
while eighty proof flowed through their veins;
dancing,
they spoke to one another,
harsh whispers
asking harsher questions with absolutely
no absolute responses.
In retrospect,
she was not seeking this
since everything she had was hers
GOD-given
sins all forgiven
in life with horrid death
(for Pete's sake, just believe it!)
and more horrid life that ended
godlessly (divorce does things like that)
with sacred treasures
(daughters, sons)
and best of friends
("...with whom we all go Caroling," she said)
and she came, too, to be with her
in this, her not so hour of need
where she provided wine and feed
to all of them;
and they all danced, together --
first,
they alone,
dreamily,
and she approached him
daring to impress herself -- then press herself
unexpectedly
against his vulnerability;
and he shuddered with surprise,
disdain,
the utter shock when first she said,
"You're nervous, Sir; I smell it!"
and he looked upset
because he bathed himself
with natural scents (himself)
and nothing more;
and she detected that
(he wasn't nervous --
just confused )
but, still, she plied herself to him
much closer than before,
and he felt the bony pubic ridges
pressed against his hungry groin
directing massive surges
of excited urges
racing to the neural center of his universe;
and he trembled uncontrollably
because his body wanted her
before his mind knew why.
The music flowed like background scenery
in this tragicomedy
(where, funniest thing, the hero doesn't die laughing)
with I as "he"
and you are "she"
and all supporting characters
are life and its emotions.
Together,
(Diamond songs continue to pervade)
arms stretched around his torso (taut)
she draped, then, drooped, and dropped a bit
her voice to just a whisper,
easy to misunderstand,
while holding, tight, his hand:
"I love you,"
so, he heard from her,
a whisper barely audible,
and he wanted to say,
"What?"
but didn't
rather than to hear some other words like:
"Have a very, merry..",
or
"I'm still in love with Jerry...",
or
"Hey down, ho down, derry, derry...";
and Neil kept on his love songs
to slow-dancing tunes, till suddenly
She bolted from his warm caress
to wheel upon her barefoot heel
to plead with him,
questioningly:
"WHAT really do you want from me?"
(Silence)
Then, she read his eyes which answered her,
and knew he wanted her. . .
"For WHAT? she wondered silently;
but, then, she knew
she really knew the reason why
they had to live
before -- ah, yes, -- they had to die.
They both retreated to the moon,
her fullness bathing them in blue,
a lighter shade, tinting them
cyanotic
amidst the chirping, croaking critters of the night.
She faced him there, eyes bluer, locked to his,
and clutched his arms and told him
"GOD exists!"
She hailed reflective moon and howled:
"I have it all, need nothing, and thank GOD for it."
(She believes in HIM,
will live and die in peace with HIM,
deservingly.)
-- and GOD was good to her
a place to live, a place to die
(the bare necessities she had to buy) --
HE gave: Matt, and Maxima, Murphy, and more
the other children we adore
She howled wildly
at the lunar sphere
which watched her battle back her fear
of what?
change? I know not! WHAT?
Stranger things I thought she said:
"Those men who crave to have me best
must give me what I have at least --
and live with me just as my guest
and treat me to a queenly feast
be willing to my love forgo:
Your passion, love, I do NOT need --
Orgasmic frenzies, leaking seed
My lips above your lips below
There is just one reality:
No one shall ever enter me."
And then she giggled, flittered off
to Michael Bolton sounds
with him in hot pursuit.
The chase abruptly stopped for him
because he knew the awful truth:
that all things good and bad must pass
away, and this would, too,
and life is all too short to wait
for nothing more than fantasy ". . .and you,"
he thought, while sipping tonic in the dark,
a touch of gin to add the spark
to light the flame, the candle for the beach
which burned for one and burned for each
while "ENYA"
(like the Spanish "N")
panted breathlessly composite parts
and warmed their souls
and burned their hearts
incredibly
with music
"If only I could be artistic. . .
so, he thought,
". . . so she would love me, too."
he thought,
and she sat close to him
still draped in darkness,
save the flickered tongues of fire
licking sensuously her silent night
from special candles
that he brought to her
for parties on the beach
(or here) in this, their total universe,
and quietly she whispered words
like empty promises
she wanted him to keep
then silence --
as he watched her digress
a moment here, an instant there,
a funny hat upon her wild hair
he watched her arrogance
fantastically fanatic
with idiosyncrasies
that isolate her from the rest
and keep her up there with the best
(because she has it all, and knows it).
They melted
like one atomic mass
exploding, ionized,
assimilating both essences
as one
and when she whispered once again,
"I love you, but.. . ."
he knew the rest
". . .I cannot kiss you, now, or ever, willingly,
because because I love another one . . ."
But no one here would ever know
the difference,
and he did,
while they were standing in the moonlight, still,
he holding firmly in his grip
her face;
he touched her vapid lips with his,
and held his lightly pressed to hers,
while she still watched him vacantly,
(her love lies dying at some future date)
observed, untouched but felt (inside)
her once loved body lies in state,
observed, untouched, unfelt (inside),
alive among the living, dead
to all who touched her vitally --
(her pulse, breath hot upon him, teasingly)
like dead -- upon her empty marriage bed.
Then, she relented, cautiously
stripped his defenses
coquettish rhythm in her hips,
silent words read on her lips,
lay stretched inviting him to come
to her.
He did while Michael Bolton played for them,
and candle burned
while friends were cuddled -- their embrace,
both face to face
impervious
to them.
Her full awareness
dissipated
drowned in her gin and tonic mix
while he absorbed himself with her
as one libido raging
on his leash
(she, unaware, that he exists or ever did)
and she still lay a dream away
somewhat alone with him.
Her quiet form lay dignified in tranquil sleep
he, in his anguish, quaking,
too close to her unmoving self,
her silent sighs
upon her heaving breast
upon which rested he his head
(between the two) her flesh his bed
(with dreams of loving all the rest);
he looked upon unopened eyes,
dark lanterns in a darker night
he nestled firm between her thighs
she opened willingly and knowing why
her narrow form reclined
evaporating clothes drifting upward
aether-bound, limbs stretched all around him
white pores oozing essentiality
his essence blended into hers as one
fingers touching fingertips
his lips touching her dead lips
(as unresponsive as before);
then, she moved so slightly back and forth
to silent music memories
(the disk stopped turning round and round)
and she writhed a bit
to every move he made upon her senseless self
(she slept through it all)
while at last
his time had come
upon her frozen naked flesh
(impervious to him)
he kissed and licked her all around
her moist-less, sense-less pubic mound
and sucked the spirit with his breathlessness
her total metamorphosis
from what she had been long ago
till now, unloving, loved like this --
his mark upon her, wet -- the kiss
she never knew he gave that night
while sleeping, she, unconscious, lay
with him as one, like firelight:
the embers charred in crimson robes must pay
for their transgression
burning themselves
to utter death
in ebony ashes
smoldering
hopelessly consuming each
with passioned heat
melting both, themselves,
into the remnants
of his ideal fantasy --
She still lay quiet, halcyon
while he, erupting, burst his bloodied heart
upon her stillness
the siren song seducing him
from scenes of nowhere else
he sucked from her what innocence
remained inert within
the languid gash
from which her children once had come
to which he wished his love would come
again.
His spirit he imbued, infused upon her unsuspecting ID --
the heaving of his heavy heart held hopeless as she bid
him come to her au natural (and he did)
without her ever knowing -- she, below and he, above
in ever-pressing rhythmic syncopation (act of love)
he entered her (with tongue in cheek) and still she didn't move --
her vulva vibrant, opened, loose, unbound --
his tongue, a whip unleashed, without a sound
screaming satisfaction as her specter shone
amidst her trembling muscles, sinews shaken to the bone
the titillation touching neural centers
to the very dendron tips
sucking unleashed fury
(a veritable, voracious,
vaginal virago
visiting him
at this acme:
orgasmic apex)
a flood of erotica,
acarpous -- acatalectic excitation
in phantasmagoric deluge
overwhelming him hedonistically,
asphyxiated by the juices of her tempestuous
sexuality,
choking on the glutted deluge of her aromatic emanations --
exuding from the cavernous walls he sucked with breathless obsession --
and she slept, still
while from the bowels of Abaddon
gushed out like all the demons from the deep
his own ejaculation --
and still, she slept
while resting, still, in her embrace,
he slept with her an hour more (or less)
(while friends lay comatose)
until the nectar slowed its sleepy trace
through rheumy veins
and tired eyes.
But she awakened from his fantasy
left him dreaming at the door
recoiling from his last advance,
you see
determined not to see him more
than once more
again
and only as a stranger would
because she could not stand to bear
the not so understandable
man
(inside of him)
inside of her.
Her guests all left one at a time,
then he, at last,
left like a solitary man,
hand in hand (with her),
wanted her to hold him close (she did not)
and wanted, too, to hold her close (she would not come)
and left her a fortressed wall intact
(resisting him)
she, within,
he, without
anything
more than memories
and all the dreams
he never would forget.
Day would swallow night, wholly,
eclipsing that one April night,
moon and stars that witnessed it, dissolved
into oblivion alive in memory and novel dreams.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 1301 times
Written on 2006-12-10 at 18:08
Tags Love Romance Erotica
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AMORATA: An Egotrek Through Erotica
Part One
The Overture to the First Meeting
He looks into the mirror of her eyes
to see himself in hers
the looking glass
reflecting his selection
of the perfection
that he sought,
it seems, forever.
The image touches his reality
with the whisper of her existence
floating by like cirrus clouds
enveloped in the strata stream
which shapes its essence
as it wills;
and she conforms playfully to his dreams
and pulls away
before the mist of panting breath
fogs the whole picture in the night
of his eternity.
Her AURA blasted outwardly
and sucked him deep
within her plumage,
he, entranced by the phantasmagoria
that overwhelmed him,
like TSUNAMI,
and, breathless,
remained transfixed,
absorbed in the mystery of her variable self.
Her wings dissipated the cumuli
that draped themselves quietly
over two souls unembodied
in fleshless essence
reaching to each other
pointlessly
exploring emotional tangentials
upon which to build a wall-less fortress
to protect themselves from each other's
harmless volleys while images meld cold heat
and rain sunshine torrentially upon their
oxymoronic existence.
Then, they meet, all the silent words unspoken
rashly tumbling onto each other
one trying to impress and not offend
or seem too fond too soon,
the onerous flood of meaningless words
trickling sufficiently
drop by strenuous drop
into a critical mind,
he, trying to enter,
she, forcing back his overtures
(until she can digest the whole
panoramic view of him),
tick-tock, clickity-clack,
racking up the points in favor for
and those against beginning an unending
relationship.
Time is friend and foe:
(if only it would just stand still)
he thinks, and she is in full control of him,
without a word, and he is still compelled to beg
for time because he made her queen of him.
She accepted and he must wait for her
until her hunger comes again,
and he lies starving at her feet,
he, the flower, she, the bee
(strange roles for them):
She had been stung before
and he felt stingers even more.
She beckoned, and he came to her,
and played with her,
and smiled while running alone,
together,
with candles on the beach;
and she prayed he would not come too close too soon
because she changes, like the Juliet moon,
and would need to make him go away
so she could play another day
with someone new.
Part Two
The First Impressions
The mist of his dream lifted
and he saw her, luminescent,
smiling,
but not to him
for she knew what she had
and what she wanted
But, he didn't know that
and he saw her
for what she SEEMED to be
and he knew her
for what he DREAMED she'd be,
what he wanted her to be,
and she just smiled at him
as he watched her.
She moved little.
He watched those little moves
with interest,
and she smiled
because she knew he knew
she fit the mold
of HIS picture of perfection.
Then, she spoke.
The words flowed honey-like, sweet,
like whispers from his very soul
(whatever THAT is, he thought)
or from his data-bank,
the list of expectations
for his ideal mate
(if not too late);
and the robes fit
not only her but also him (his dream, that is)
and thrilled him with that gut-wrenching jolt
he felt
when something, someone, felt just right.
And she was tall enough,
distributed finely (or so it seemed,
because first looks could be SO deceiving)
and she smiled at his ultimate satisfaction
because she knew he knew nothing about her
and she smiled at his naivete because he "LOVED"
(whatever THAT could mean)
what he saw
(or thought he saw)
and fell hopelessly in
interest
with her, in her, for her
and she smiled at THAT thought
because she was in full control of him.
So, she smiled teasingly
and touched his offered hand
(it was the ONLY thing to do
under circumstances
where no one ever could say NO tonight)
and moved with him in syncopation
to sounds and idle conversation,
and he burned within
because it seemed to be too good for him
and she smiled as she held him close to her
because he wanted her (he thought),
and she was in control of him
and it felt good to hold him close
(no matter WHO he is)
because he seemed so good
to her, for her, with her
and could be thrown away at will
because she had control of him.
She knew him well
because he told her,
and she smiled because she had control of him
and she told him little of herself
just scattered thoughts,
and he listened
and heard his nightmare vanish
with the silence of her different past
and he smiled wanly
because he knew the night was short
and all too soon
she'd disappear into the mist of the dream
he never knew he'd ever have.
Part Three
The Second Meeting
The dreamy vision reappeared
ghostlike wisps emerging from a nether world,
and he was there, still, to receive it;
and he reached his willing arms to her,
but she refused again, as always,
keeping him on line with hooks attached,
absorbing, enjoying, whenever she desired him
(he never had refused advances that she made)
she was the beauty, he, the beast:
she, young , slender, soft, too delicate, and BOLD
he, old, obese, hard, too unrefined, and COLD
without her warmth to cradle him
in just his dreams
from which there could be no escape.
So, he dared closer to remove himself
from his reality
into the aether region of herself
and he hesitated (his mistake)
missed the Carpe Diem by that one misstep,
and she vanished in the whispered breath
with which she first appeared to him;
he knew she would inevitably
like atomic half-lives always reach and never touch
their ultimate deaths penultimate life
like half of one consecutively striving for the final zero
never reaching it -- like her, he thought
without her, ultimate death, towards zero
but with her, only half-life for she moved away from him
with equal steps,
and he touched her hand,
and floating ribs (in ritualistic dance),
the shell of her existence,
while heaven (peaceful rest) enveloped him
(she smiled again while reading thoroughly his eyes
and commented on those dreamy looks)
and she seduced him through his very dream --
then left him standing by himself
until she decides if she'll return to him
tomorrow.
Her spirit dissipated into the nether world, again,
and he was there to capture her in words alone
because her body disappeared and nothing there was left
but his imagination and dreams that need no life to live.
Part Four
The Wait
He dove into the sunset
just to set with it
because there just was no one else to sit with at the time
so, he chose Aurora burning as his resting place
and he waited
till the dark beset him with its shadowless lightlessness
and he could see nothing
because no one there was there to see;
but, he waited
closed his open eyes to wait for dreams
to get kick-started
and they did with something new
and someone old (not age) just used
a time or two before,
sometimes an extra
where stars were few in the blackness of the lightless stage
of nightly dreams that gave him sustenance
because no one there would feed him
or cared to
because they were waiting for their OWN dreams to materialize;
and HE just wasn't important enough for her to wait
though she was life and breath
and he, life, then death,
and nothing more.
The dream became reality
where she opened up herself to him
and he listened because
well, he might awaken,
and her ghost may truly have dissipated into
the nether reaches of
timelessness.
He never knew for sure.
Part Five
The First Private Meeting
Beethoven rages in my head
as if the orchestra were seated
somewhere
in the cerebral cavity
(above the medulla oblongata)
while you sit six feet from me
yawning over textbook info
someone says you've got to know
to pass a test you have to take
to get a grade you ought to make.
You're not Virginia Slim;
but, it, smoking,
juts out from fingertips
and you suck on it occasionally
to break monotony
or think a moment just to cloud the issue
more than it is already muddled.
Oh, it's NOT a cigarette? A pen?
Ah, my mistake. You see, I cannot see too well
in such a smoke-filled room.
Mirabile Visu, you allow the text
to ooze from page and page and page
to somewhere in a tiny convolution
pressed into service
just for this occasion in your head.
Your eyes wander, then peruse assiduously
more content than you are content to bear.
Your body is impervious to anyone,
anymore,
breasts still, at ease (at my attention),
(staring at the tiled floor),
while your visage I adore
watching interactive parts
(flesh and bone with hair and more)
a combination (liberal arts
could make no better form)
irresistible to stouter hearts
but cold to some and some too warm.
My x-ray eyes can fantasize
unclothe to show me
all the creases
etched with time,
muscle tone,
unbroken bone,
and tendons stretched (tight sinews)
and hairy crevices,
dry -- now vacant --
waiting for the moment
for no one, yet
(moistness waiting in the wings
of labia majoris, minoris or other things
dry now, calm, but waiting to be wet),
waiting,
and I see the tibia form,
and fibula,
and a femur rush to ischial cave
with pelvic ridges on the hips
(my eyes and salivating lips
urging daydreams not to roam
too far from what you are or seem to be)
and I watch you still not seeing me.
Your pages turn
my manuscript of you,
re-written with adoring eyes,
pages open, each page lies, openly,
musing possibilities of fantasy:
I hold your body close to me
to feel the pounding of your heart,
(unfelt, silent)
the gushing blood, the salty sweat
permeating pores, and wet-
ness oozing where
my dreams
in rhythmic syncopation
flow,
coming both together,
we, upon the flowered bed,
where first we loved
inside my head.
Part Six
(The Night of April 26)
Night swallowed day, wholly,
beacon full gleaming (lunarly),
chorus of stars in audience,
watching, listening to two souls
embodied in their human flesh
cooing to each other's promises;
and they wandered proudly
to the center of the ring
embraced to Diamond words
while eighty proof flowed through their veins;
dancing,
they spoke to one another,
harsh whispers
asking harsher questions with absolutely
no absolute responses.
In retrospect,
she was not seeking this
since everything she had was hers
GOD-given
sins all forgiven
in life with horrid death
(for Pete's sake, just believe it!)
and more horrid life that ended
godlessly (divorce does things like that)
with sacred treasures
(daughters, sons)
and best of friends
("...with whom we all go Caroling," she said)
and she came, too, to be with her
in this, her not so hour of need
where she provided wine and feed
to all of them;
and they all danced, together --
first,
they alone,
dreamily,
and she approached him
daring to impress herself -- then press herself
unexpectedly
against his vulnerability;
and he shuddered with surprise,
disdain,
the utter shock when first she said,
"You're nervous, Sir; I smell it!"
and he looked upset
because he bathed himself
with natural scents (himself)
and nothing more;
and she detected that
(he wasn't nervous --
just confused )
but, still, she plied herself to him
much closer than before,
and he felt the bony pubic ridges
pressed against his hungry groin
directing massive surges
of excited urges
racing to the neural center of his universe;
and he trembled uncontrollably
because his body wanted her
before his mind knew why.
The music flowed like background scenery
in this tragicomedy
(where, funniest thing, the hero doesn't die laughing)
with I as "he"
and you are "she"
and all supporting characters
are life and its emotions.
Together,
(Diamond songs continue to pervade)
arms stretched around his torso (taut)
she draped, then, drooped, and dropped a bit
her voice to just a whisper,
easy to misunderstand,
while holding, tight, his hand:
"I love you,"
so, he heard from her,
a whisper barely audible,
and he wanted to say,
"What?"
but didn't
rather than to hear some other words like:
"Have a very, merry..",
or
"I'm still in love with Jerry...",
or
"Hey down, ho down, derry, derry...";
and Neil kept on his love songs
to slow-dancing tunes, till suddenly
She bolted from his warm caress
to wheel upon her barefoot heel
to plead with him,
questioningly:
"WHAT really do you want from me?"
(Silence)
Then, she read his eyes which answered her,
and knew he wanted her. . .
"For WHAT? she wondered silently;
but, then, she knew
she really knew the reason why
they had to live
before -- ah, yes, -- they had to die.
They both retreated to the moon,
her fullness bathing them in blue,
a lighter shade, tinting them
cyanotic
amidst the chirping, croaking critters of the night.
She faced him there, eyes bluer, locked to his,
and clutched his arms and told him
"GOD exists!"
She hailed reflective moon and howled:
"I have it all, need nothing, and thank GOD for it."
(She believes in HIM,
will live and die in peace with HIM,
deservingly.)
-- and GOD was good to her
a place to live, a place to die
(the bare necessities she had to buy) --
HE gave: Matt, and Maxima, Murphy, and more
the other children we adore
She howled wildly
at the lunar sphere
which watched her battle back her fear
of what?
change? I know not! WHAT?
Stranger things I thought she said:
"Those men who crave to have me best
must give me what I have at least --
and live with me just as my guest
and treat me to a queenly feast
be willing to my love forgo:
Your passion, love, I do NOT need --
Orgasmic frenzies, leaking seed
My lips above your lips below
There is just one reality:
No one shall ever enter me."
And then she giggled, flittered off
to Michael Bolton sounds
with him in hot pursuit.
The chase abruptly stopped for him
because he knew the awful truth:
that all things good and bad must pass
away, and this would, too,
and life is all too short to wait
for nothing more than fantasy ". . .and you,"
he thought, while sipping tonic in the dark,
a touch of gin to add the spark
to light the flame, the candle for the beach
which burned for one and burned for each
while "ENYA"
(like the Spanish "N")
panted breathlessly composite parts
and warmed their souls
and burned their hearts
incredibly
with music
"If only I could be artistic. . .
so, he thought,
". . . so she would love me, too."
he thought,
and she sat close to him
still draped in darkness,
save the flickered tongues of fire
licking sensuously her silent night
from special candles
that he brought to her
for parties on the beach
(or here) in this, their total universe,
and quietly she whispered words
like empty promises
she wanted him to keep
then silence --
as he watched her digress
a moment here, an instant there,
a funny hat upon her wild hair
he watched her arrogance
fantastically fanatic
with idiosyncrasies
that isolate her from the rest
and keep her up there with the best
(because she has it all, and knows it).
They melted
like one atomic mass
exploding, ionized,
assimilating both essences
as one
and when she whispered once again,
"I love you, but.. . ."
he knew the rest
". . .I cannot kiss you, now, or ever, willingly,
because because I love another one . . ."
But no one here would ever know
the difference,
and he did,
while they were standing in the moonlight, still,
he holding firmly in his grip
her face;
he touched her vapid lips with his,
and held his lightly pressed to hers,
while she still watched him vacantly,
(her love lies dying at some future date)
observed, untouched but felt (inside)
her once loved body lies in state,
observed, untouched, unfelt (inside),
alive among the living, dead
to all who touched her vitally --
(her pulse, breath hot upon him, teasingly)
like dead -- upon her empty marriage bed.
Then, she relented, cautiously
stripped his defenses
coquettish rhythm in her hips,
silent words read on her lips,
lay stretched inviting him to come
to her.
He did while Michael Bolton played for them,
and candle burned
while friends were cuddled -- their embrace,
both face to face
impervious
to them.
Her full awareness
dissipated
drowned in her gin and tonic mix
while he absorbed himself with her
as one libido raging
on his leash
(she, unaware, that he exists or ever did)
and she still lay a dream away
somewhat alone with him.
Her quiet form lay dignified in tranquil sleep
he, in his anguish, quaking,
too close to her unmoving self,
her silent sighs
upon her heaving breast
upon which rested he his head
(between the two) her flesh his bed
(with dreams of loving all the rest);
he looked upon unopened eyes,
dark lanterns in a darker night
he nestled firm between her thighs
she opened willingly and knowing why
her narrow form reclined
evaporating clothes drifting upward
aether-bound, limbs stretched all around him
white pores oozing essentiality
his essence blended into hers as one
fingers touching fingertips
his lips touching her dead lips
(as unresponsive as before);
then, she moved so slightly back and forth
to silent music memories
(the disk stopped turning round and round)
and she writhed a bit
to every move he made upon her senseless self
(she slept through it all)
while at last
his time had come
upon her frozen naked flesh
(impervious to him)
he kissed and licked her all around
her moist-less, sense-less pubic mound
and sucked the spirit with his breathlessness
her total metamorphosis
from what she had been long ago
till now, unloving, loved like this --
his mark upon her, wet -- the kiss
she never knew he gave that night
while sleeping, she, unconscious, lay
with him as one, like firelight:
the embers charred in crimson robes must pay
for their transgression
burning themselves
to utter death
in ebony ashes
smoldering
hopelessly consuming each
with passioned heat
melting both, themselves,
into the remnants
of his ideal fantasy --
She still lay quiet, halcyon
while he, erupting, burst his bloodied heart
upon her stillness
the siren song seducing him
from scenes of nowhere else
he sucked from her what innocence
remained inert within
the languid gash
from which her children once had come
to which he wished his love would come
again.
His spirit he imbued, infused upon her unsuspecting ID --
the heaving of his heavy heart held hopeless as she bid
him come to her au natural (and he did)
without her ever knowing -- she, below and he, above
in ever-pressing rhythmic syncopation (act of love)
he entered her (with tongue in cheek) and still she didn't move --
her vulva vibrant, opened, loose, unbound --
his tongue, a whip unleashed, without a sound
screaming satisfaction as her specter shone
amidst her trembling muscles, sinews shaken to the bone
the titillation touching neural centers
to the very dendron tips
sucking unleashed fury
(a veritable, voracious,
vaginal virago
visiting him
at this acme:
orgasmic apex)
a flood of erotica,
acarpous -- acatalectic excitation
in phantasmagoric deluge
overwhelming him hedonistically,
asphyxiated by the juices of her tempestuous
sexuality,
choking on the glutted deluge of her aromatic emanations --
exuding from the cavernous walls he sucked with breathless obsession --
and she slept, still
while from the bowels of Abaddon
gushed out like all the demons from the deep
his own ejaculation --
and still, she slept
while resting, still, in her embrace,
he slept with her an hour more (or less)
(while friends lay comatose)
until the nectar slowed its sleepy trace
through rheumy veins
and tired eyes.
But she awakened from his fantasy
left him dreaming at the door
recoiling from his last advance,
you see
determined not to see him more
than once more
again
and only as a stranger would
because she could not stand to bear
the not so understandable
man
(inside of him)
inside of her.
Her guests all left one at a time,
then he, at last,
left like a solitary man,
hand in hand (with her),
wanted her to hold him close (she did not)
and wanted, too, to hold her close (she would not come)
and left her a fortressed wall intact
(resisting him)
she, within,
he, without
anything
more than memories
and all the dreams
he never would forget.
Day would swallow night, wholly,
eclipsing that one April night,
moon and stars that witnessed it, dissolved
into oblivion alive in memory and novel dreams.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 1301 times
Written on 2006-12-10 at 18:08
Tags Love Romance Erotica
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