There are seams between truths
like fissures in bones.
i don’t have it in me (to pretend)…
siren song…
elsewhere
later
under cover
breast against your ribs
still warm
ripe
she enters our room
on windless calm
the fertile earth
and spreading plain
of her promised land
whispers
(and how the lyre plucks)
across continents and over seas
lapping
lapping
lapping
waves of heart’s content
bound tight ’round her mast
sail on
a wiser man
and leave me sleep
– Lola Moi –
the naked truth…
Most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them
and cover them up, at least a little bit.
– Edward R. Murrow –
for you, for world poetry day…
that’s where it’s at…
intimate bliss…
a ritual to read to each other…
If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep,
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
– William Stafford –
catch your breath…
Honeyed alabaster.
Flawless skin, smooth like silk. No, like air. She moves across the room and you can’t take your eyes off her. A freckle. A cocktail dress clings to the sides of her small, generous curves; her breasts slightly rambunctious and buoyant. The emerald-green bounces light into her sweet, brown eyes. The waves and coils of her hair catch your breath like a spider’s web.
Bewitched.
I slip between you: softly, hungrily licking and lifting the creamy sauce from her slick, velvety creases.
Our cries – melodic in their intensity, harmonized in their passion – crescendo.
Succubus.
– Lola Moi –