Part 2 of four or more; the Massage Dorsally
New overture, crescendo –
Ravel's Bolero should do
you prostrate lie waiting
for hot liquid balm
pressed smoothly
nape to Achilles heel
not yet the storm
until the steamy calm
presiding o'er the candle-lit boudoir
Cupid's resurrection
wax slowly seeping down
erected shafts of paraffin
blinking
shadows dancing
every wall engaged
this minuet of love
begun
ejaculated cream oozed tube to hand
white marble stream
oyster champagne flow
rubbed into palm to palm
laid warm upon your dormant back
squirting bursts caught dripping, slow
from leaking tip
drop by luscious drop
rubbed rhythmically
through creases, valleys,
muscular mounds
stretched tautly
concentric circles
even pressure pushing gently
through the pores and portals
through the Venus veins
where lying in most inner chamber
your hot burning heart remains.
I straddled you
still dripping
slipping on your slimy
slopes in syncopated
slice of pulsing tempo
nape to tight trapezius
between hands
stable with anticipation
squeezing out the bulging painful
ridges of ropey fibers
laced in disarray
traversing your delta plain
full of strata streams
of your prime beef.
Relief
Ocean motion
swelling tides of ebb and neap
seas of lotion
seeping into caverns deep
while you lie
as if in sleep
I hovering
angel on your back
with magic wand in hand
performing for your leisure
there's the rub
enhancing all your pleasure
more rub-a-dub-dub
soon love in the tub
of lust.
For now,
spread wide rounded cheeks
above, behind, sprinter thighs
relax to feather touch, closed eyes
don't see – (they facing down) what leaks
upon your dual maxima
and all that lies within
and in between,
dripping
drop by drop
into the chasm
the abyss,
sphinx entering Scylla whirlpool
Charybdis slamming shut
like mythical rock
upon my stiffly climaxing – uh, – uh, oh -
cock — crows at seven –
must hurry –
can't blow this job
of purely joyful bliss.
Then, I think-
'Hmmm, that was a mouthful
to lay upon her, '
and all the while, panting,
my hands and fingers never stopped moving
on you,
over you,
within you -
wherever I could.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 955 times
Written on 2007-01-05 at 05:22
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The Process Part 2
Act twoNew overture, crescendo –
Ravel's Bolero should do
you prostrate lie waiting
for hot liquid balm
pressed smoothly
nape to Achilles heel
not yet the storm
until the steamy calm
presiding o'er the candle-lit boudoir
Cupid's resurrection
wax slowly seeping down
erected shafts of paraffin
blinking
shadows dancing
every wall engaged
this minuet of love
begun
ejaculated cream oozed tube to hand
white marble stream
oyster champagne flow
rubbed into palm to palm
laid warm upon your dormant back
squirting bursts caught dripping, slow
from leaking tip
drop by luscious drop
rubbed rhythmically
through creases, valleys,
muscular mounds
stretched tautly
concentric circles
even pressure pushing gently
through the pores and portals
through the Venus veins
where lying in most inner chamber
your hot burning heart remains.
I straddled you
still dripping
slipping on your slimy
slopes in syncopated
slice of pulsing tempo
nape to tight trapezius
between hands
stable with anticipation
squeezing out the bulging painful
ridges of ropey fibers
laced in disarray
traversing your delta plain
full of strata streams
of your prime beef.
Relief
Ocean motion
swelling tides of ebb and neap
seas of lotion
seeping into caverns deep
while you lie
as if in sleep
I hovering
angel on your back
with magic wand in hand
performing for your leisure
there's the rub
enhancing all your pleasure
more rub-a-dub-dub
soon love in the tub
of lust.
For now,
spread wide rounded cheeks
above, behind, sprinter thighs
relax to feather touch, closed eyes
don't see – (they facing down) what leaks
upon your dual maxima
and all that lies within
and in between,
dripping
drop by drop
into the chasm
the abyss,
sphinx entering Scylla whirlpool
Charybdis slamming shut
like mythical rock
upon my stiffly climaxing – uh, – uh, oh -
cock — crows at seven –
must hurry –
can't blow this job
of purely joyful bliss.
Then, I think-
'Hmmm, that was a mouthful
to lay upon her, '
and all the while, panting,
my hands and fingers never stopped moving
on you,
over you,
within you -
wherever I could.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 955 times
Written on 2007-01-05 at 05:22
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text