a poem without a single bird in it…

a poem without a single bird in it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What will I say to you, darling,
When you ask me for help?
I do not know the future.
Or even what poetry,
We are going to write.
Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people
Than either of us have tried it.
I loved you once but,
I do not know the future.
I only know that I love strength in my friends.
And greatness.
And hate the way the body cracks,
And is eaten by images.
The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.
Commit suicide. Go mad. There will be nothing left
After we die or go mad… but the calmness of poetry

And love.

— Jack Spicer —

the simple things (a beginning)…

… your hand moving hair out of my eyes.
… your mouth kissing me deep, and then deeper.
… your eyes tracing my shy curves.
… your jaw tightening as I writhe in delicious agony.
… the sound my skin makes on the sheets as I spread my legs wider for you.
… the way my nipples push against innocent material.
… the sway of my hips as I walk towards you.
… the way I cover my mouth as I belly laugh.
… drinking your smell in when I hug you.
… your finger dancing with my tongue.
… my big brown eyes looking up at you, seeing you.
… my dimples.
… our blush.
… watching your cock dance.
… your broad back under my fingertips.
… your first moan of many.
… our hands clasped tight.
… our legs entwined.
… looking deep into your eyes.
… my mouth opening to take you in.
… my hands reaching for you.
… laughing with you.
… your fingers slipping between my folds, looking for my wet.
… my smell that lingers after you hold me.
… your voice in my ear.
… tracing you down to your waist.
…. washing every inch of you.
… our breath holding when your beautiful hard first touches me.
… laying beside you and caressing your chest.
… hearing you say “yes.”