you walk like a poem…
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 —
love sonnet xi…
L
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
— Pablo Neruda —
tired from the work…
abiding joy.
mysterious peace.
riotous rest.
sometimes much nearer…
Sometimes, it’s so simple: I just want you to fuck me.
(And now would be a good time to start.)
a night that is a day…
I spread myself.
Give me your weight.
My arms wrap around and mark the width you are on top. My hips buck up and pause so that your heat sinks deeper.
Yes. There, there. Oh, God, yes.
My hands reach around you, up and down, I caress the waves of each pump, gripping you with each crest our moans make. I bite your lip, your shoulder – it’s all I can think to do.
We are fucking, oh fuck.
All I want to do is be filled by you. I want to taste your need. Pound me right to my core with your desire; make my cunt throb with subtle ache for days.
We dance love when it is not… and so much more.
In the silence we create as you look into my eyes, I see what I don’t understand. I feel your hand – gentle, firm – around my neck, and I squirm for a kiss.
Again. Please, again. Oh my fuck, don’t stop now.
There is no denial. There is only time – the time we take to swallow, submerge, and satiate the other. Your cock bobs and weaves its way. My mouth opens, as it must.
Fuck. Your mouth… fuck me, I love your mouth.
There is no end, only what begins anew.