Secret Thots for a Very Private Gentleman
tales, temptation, and titillation…
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold….
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hands, I used to hold
Since you went away, the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear ol’ winter’s song.
But I miss you most of all my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.
— Johnny Mercer —
We throw our parties… we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. Its as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There‘s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning;
we hope, more than anything, for more.
Heaven only knows why we love it so…
— Michael Cunningham —
And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
— Hart Crane —
“So, what do you go for in a girl?”
He crows, lifting the lager to his lips,
He gestures where his mate sits,
then downs his glass.
“He prefers tits.
I prefer ass.
What do you go for in a girl?”Well, I feel quite comfortable.
The air left the room a long time ago.
All eyes are on me.
Um, if you must know,
I’d like a girl who… reads.Yeah. Reads.
I’m not trying to call you a chauvinist,
because I know you’re not alone in this, but…I want a girl who reads—
who needs the written word
and who uses the added vocabulary
she gleans from novels and poetry
to hold lively conversation
in a range of social situations.I want a girl who reads—
whose heart bleeds at the words of Graham Greene
or even Heat magazine
who’ll tie back her hair while reading Jane Eyre
and goes cover to cover with each
Waterstones three for two offer
but I want a girl who doesn’t stop there.I want a girl who reads.
A girl who feeds her addiction for fiction
with unusual poems and plays
that she hunts out in crooked bookshops for days and days and days.
She’ll sit addicted at breakfast,
soaking up the back of the cornflakes box
and the information she gets
from what she reads makes her a total fox,
because she’s interesting and she’s unique,
and her theories make me go weak
at the knees.I want a girl who reads.
A girl whose eyes will analyze the menu over dinner,
who’ll use what she learns to kick my ass in arguments
so she always ends the winner.
But she’ll still be sweet and she’ll still be flirty
‘Cause she loves the classics and they’re pretty dirty.
And that means late at night she’ll always have me in a stupor
as she paraphrases the raunchier moments from the works of Jilly Cooper.See, some guys prefer asses.
Some prefer tits.
And I’m not saying that I don’t like those bits,
but what’s more important?
What supersedes
Is a girl a with passion, wit and dreams.
So I’d like a girl who reads.
— Mark Grist —
Go to the limits of your longing…
Flare up like flame and make big shadows that I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going.
No feeling is final.
— Rainer Maria Rilke —
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick clouds.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.
— Rumi —
Every time I see you, my body wakes up.
I am alive.
Again.
Everywhere.
Walking away from you, the cool summer wind caresses
the silkiest parts of my thighs.
Echoes of your mouth, your hands, your breath on me.
I moan quietly –
my clit tingles with this need, these secrets.
The stars above us give witness.
Tremors, all.
your love is downy soft
a gentle brush ‘gainst lashes closed
a fist wrapped tight ’round rosemary and mint
it beats like a drum in the basement
it’s echo a pillow plumped in sheet forts built long ago
each crinkle of your smile
a constant call that does not rest
that will not abide the loss of what can be won
sweet determination
sufferance of fools
and saviour to none
your love blossoms under full moons
in the spaces between words on pages
and gasps of air ‘tween laughter that rings true
this is your fullness
the light you shine on a world living for itself
you pause when you used to run
you doubt despite assurances you are right
you speak without apology
into a mic made of bone and air
dear one
hold the hand that reaches for you
but let it go, let it be
and float
float
and float
here among the clouds of your heart’s home
hear the beat calling your own name from within
the sky that holds all that love
that is you
— Lola Moi —
You were once inside me.
You know the folds that define me.
You have tasted the flavour of love blossom and linger on me.
Our desire oozed and flowed from me, insatiable.
You have sucked me into such moans that
even upon recollection your cock springs into action.
You binged on me – sweating out my light, drowning in the deep dark.
My trust, a gift.
Our joy was a door caught in the wind’s wild rhythm.
Banging.
Banging.
Banging.
She was a curious girl,
Who loved the smell
of old books,
chasing butterflies
and touching herself
under the covers.
— Michael Faudet —
