On Tenterhooks And Collapsing

I’m at the foot of the bed wearing only my boxers. She’s watching porn, and I’m writing a poem whilst fantasising about fucking her. I’m thirsty, and my balls ache. The room’s a mess, and we’ve done nothing all day long. It was sunny out as well, but I slept for most of it with a comforting sense of abandon. I dreamt about rabbits and mountains. Everything was still. Solemn like a thousand forgotten Sundays. I popped down to the shops when I woke and had a few cigarettes on the way. Returning with junk food and a distinct lack of alcohol, I had a bath and read some Bukowski until it got dark and couldn’t see anything. The light bulbs broken, and I can’t be bothered to replace it. She’s been flowering for hours now. All that sin, just bursting to get out. Drying myself off and watching in anticipation, she’s on the verge of popping now, and I can’t contain myself any longer.

Fingernails and teeth, digging in. Scratches and caterwauls, massive and sparse like a primal scream.

Drifting always. Fragments of bodies, casting shadows against the bedroom wall. On tenterhooks and collapsing.

I’m still thirsty, always thirsty. Illuminated by mystery and death. The strangeness that drowns us, that never lets us go. The desire that creeps in, having been hidden for so long. All paths lead here. All kisses and everything, swirling around us as the walls of time dissolve. It’s all falling apart and coming back together, again and again. This is all that we are. Behind all facades, the shine we have inside never hard to find.

Tightened and organic. That’s how it’s got to be. Warm and pink, comforting like bedsheets and sand. Touching flesh, caressing like a man always should. The feel of something true. Something, alive. Pleasure zones and danger zones. Birth and the wonders of time. Only human they say, but it’s far beyond the limits of mere soft machines. It’s a journey of hips and fruit. All things sweet and tasty, like the flesh of her buttocks. Teeth marks and oil, glistening beneath the moon. The light is blinding, like when she removes her top revealing sunshine and nature. Fingers slipping in, and the jolt of electricity from her touch that makes me shed my skin. I was cold blooded, but now I’m changing. From a lizard to a lion, or the majestic outlines of a minotaur.

She’s like a peach you could say. Ripe and ready to sink your teeth into.

Puncture wounds and the stars that flicker all those dead years away. The streets are lonely. The animals are still sleeping, but they’ll be up soon enough, ready to dance their dance once more. The night air hangs heavy. It’s waiting for a display of bodies. That celebration of life, as ancient as the soil and just as holy. All the lovers, sighing in unison. All the maniacs, howling to the moon as blood pumps through our veins. On the verge of passing out, the excitement grows. The buzz of tongues, twisting as she turns her face to mine. The glory of merging, and the serenading of throats. The words that trickle down her chest and in between her breasts. They belong to her and her alone. They excite, and they ignite, the core of what she is. Of apples and lemons. Oranges, rolling down a hillside as the sun sinks from view. The flowers around her forehead, and the grass beneath her feet. Endless horizons. The sex of infinity, all roads leading to the source. The skies on fire, and the burning of lust she holds deep inside.

In my mouth, and in my hands. The force of aggression, held close against her throat.

Do it before you lose touch, for I lost touch, a long, long time ago.

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