Chirality

There are two sides of me and I find it fascinating how far apart on the spectrum they are.  You’re responsible for one of them, the world is responsible for the other.  I’ve indulged in both and fed them until they’ve grown into separate entities.

They’re ravenous.
They both hibernate.
There is little that can stop them when the scale is tipped in their favor.

Despite the appearance of one, they are both extremely passionate.  One shows it in a traditional way, while the other in symptoms.

I want your skin in my teeth.  My fingers should puncture the still plains of your skin and press a white knuckled intensity into them.  You should feel how I want you in the palms of my hand as I grip every fleshy part of you to take as my own.
Fuck you taste good.  Just a little bite?
The indentations of my teeth along your shoulder won’t fade as quickly as the moments of lust I drive into you.  That little stare you gave made my eyes squint.  The brush of your hair behind your ear caused my teeth to grit.  The side glance and head tilt was the on switch.  The rest belonged to me onto you.  So Mr. Hyde feasted.

The other side is not subtle, if Mr Hyde can be considered it.  Where Hyde uses his teeth Jekyll uses his mind to fuck the submission away from the dominant.  It all leads to an explosion of want and greed without gratification.  A turn of keys and cogs to push everything in me further and further to the pinnacle.
Ask of me what you want and it will be done.  Push the limits of every listed limit.  Find limits that were hidden and break them.  I’ll worship your steps and burst with praise.  I am yours, always.  So Dr Jekyll indulged.

When one is awake the other’s asleep.  They do not cross and they do not meet.
One up high and the other down low.  One side tells and the other side shows.

You are dirty words written on my wrist

Your body is poetry to me and I want to write the words along your curves.
On your hips they’ll cascade down between your thighs.
Along your chest they’ll circle inward until no room is left.
Around your neck they’ll be written in blues and blacks tightly together.
A single word for each toe.
A single word for each finger.
My teeth will leave the words marked into your fleshy bottom, an unintelligible yet universal language.
When I’m done,
with the ink still wet,
I’ll have you on me and we’ll smear the words into each others skin
and fuck the poetry into each other’s sin

Pull the sound from my heart and make it sing

You are the bow that runs across my strings.  Slowly and gently, as a whisper to waken my soul.

You are the fingers crashing into my piano keys.  Grabbing me, with no choice but to notice that I’ll never be the same.

Your bow now runs hard.  My strings cry.  They know the anguish that is your touch after it’s gone.

My keys find tune to my strings.  Your fingers sync with your bow.  We drift into melody and fade out like the whisper faded in.

 

*****
Inspired by the song “Por Una Cabeza” 

Avalon

We love things for reasons we don’t often know.  Sounds, smells and tastes, they all soak into our skin and become a part of how we live.  The places that give us the most comfort have an ambiance that echoes our loves.  The clattering of plates and murmur of voices while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air does it for some.  Others find themselves at peace under the sun with birds chirping and stillness in the air.  The beach, the city at night, the streets after it rains, they all are favorites for many different people who are more alike then they know.

For me though, I never had a place that gave me calm yet filled me with life.  For me it was different things that could never balance themselves out to perfect symmetry.  A rose alive in a dark room whispering from the shadows.  Rain to glass among howling wind on a mid-morning Tuesday.  They would come to say hello once or twice a year, but I didn’t know them very well.

It wasn’t until I met you that I thought I could have a place like everyone else had.  A comfort.  Tranquility.  You were the smell of sweet citrus in the summer.  Sticky and running down your chin from a voracious bite.  I’d lick the acidic sweetness from your lips and grow it to a kiss of tongues and heavy breaths.
After our bodies were peeled of any clothing and our colorful skin bare, ready for teeth to taste the juices inside, you became music to soothe me.  The arch of your hips and your breast curved like an instrument.  The plucking pizzicato of sensitive strings made you sing.  Your leg bowed around my back, creating music in me as you drew it across my flesh.  Our vibrations humming in pictured beauty.

That is what you are, what you were.  My sanctuary.  My garden.
You were my nature.  You were my music.
The hard winds that erode the cliffs.  The fierce waves that crash against the rocks.

You were growth.  You were life.  You were more than love.

 

Lordosis Behavior

Tell me that you want me.  Show me.

Tighten your back and weaken your hips.  Bend.
You always had bad posture, now lets put it to use.  

I’m a bull and you’re wearing red.
Flared and charging down Pamplona’s streets.

Predator and prey,
but you want to be hunted.

As I sink my teeth in I cannot resist
and your mouth falls open in a frenzy

If I could think in that moment I’d wonder
who was hunting who

If I could think in that moment
then you wouldn’t be you.

Heart shaped

The little space between your legs

when they’re pressed together.

Light shines through

as does the lust,

my minds in a tether.

It’s a view of me and you

and your body contorted.

Bent in half at hunger’s wrath

feasting until morning.

That heart-shaped space

with thighs closed tight

pulling at my strings.

Ripped and torn

pouring sounds of want

and any craving that it brings.

You’re my poison

I don’t like cigarettes, but seeing one dangle from your lips gives me a charge.  You’re so casual too, pinching it between your fingers and dragging in the poison.  You filter out the really bad stuff and let the rest blow like a whistle from your lips.

Such a cool girl with your sunglasses on.

 

Ten Minutes To Midnight

It’s ten minutes to midnight and you just went to bed, but I’m left lingering in my chair for a short while after.  Your scent is holding just under my nose and on my fingers and absolutely on my lips.  Along with your taste.

I could have went to bed with you.  Your arm was stretched out and holding mine as you tugged lightly and let my hand slip through your fingers.  Instead I shook my head and waved you off.

“In a minute,” I said.

You shrugged with a smile and headed on without me.  Your body swayed and your hips shook until you faded into the darkness and left me with my thoughts.

Those thoughts were part of why I couldn’t go with you.  Not yet.  I wanted to savor the feeling.  The experience of you.  Those thoughts were going to be scorched into my memory while my body was too weak to move.

I don’t know how you got up so steadily.  Maybe you collapsed on the bed in a heap once you made it, but I couldn’t even fake it for that long.  You know how to take me apart and leave me in pieces.  My hands are too shaky to put myself back together right away, I need a minute.  You’re masterful at making me need to recover.

I’ll be in there soon.  I’ll be in there with you.  I may even find a surge and try to do further damage to your skin with my teeth and nails.  Knock your bones off of their joints and make you walk funny just for me.  You’ve already done it my way plenty of times.

It’s now three minutes to midnight.  I’ve sat long enough.  I want to turn today into tomorrow against you.

 

Drunken Poets Tell The Truth

“I favor eating your pussy to all others, dear Ruby,” the old man exclaimed in slurred words while leaning over papers at his desk.

“Charming,” replied the young woman from the bed a few feet away, “it’s amazing those words of yours aren’t published and plastered across newspapers far and wide.”

He sneered back at her, “same could be said of your cunt.”

She rolled over and put her back to him.  The sheet bunched up between her legs and balled against her chest.  She hugged it tight for comfort instead of warmth.  The raging fire in the furnace was enough to keep the entire street warm, yet he kept the window open all winter as well.

“I think better in between temperatures,” he would tell anyone who asked, and there were plenty.  He’d invite people up to his room to drink beyond closing hours of the bar he lived above.  There would be women as well, prostitutes, he would spend whatever money on he had that he didn’t imbibe.  There were no shortage of people in and out of his tiny apartment.

Tonight it was Ruby.  That wasn’t her real name but she hadn’t used her real name in so long that it may as well have been.  She had heard about the old man that lived above the bar and all of the stories that went along with him.  His eccentricities.  How he would rant and drink and give a girl whatever she wanted if she seemed interested.  His bluntness and the bit of mean streak that he carried, it was mostly words but he could look threatening if he wanted to.  Nobody ever claimed he harmed them though.

He also had money, which was the most important thing to a woman selling her body for sexual favors.  It really was the only thing that mattered.

The old man always paid and he usually paid more than the agreed upon amount.

“He’s a great tipper,” the other girls told Ruby when she got the call.

“He’ll fuck you, he’ll drink, he’ll rant and when he falls asleep you just take the money and slip out like nothing.  There’s no pleading for more time or trying to set up another date.  It’s a quick transaction and usually doesn’t even last the whole night.”

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