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Tuesday, November 30, 2010

I Am Insatiable




I love erotic poetry.

Big surprise, huh? Seriously, one of the attractions that poetry has for me is the insistent pull of the language, the marriage of form and content that makes more than just the sum of the parts.

Finding the right word, the EXACTLY right word, is both challenge and payoff all at once.

And nowhere is that blend more powerful than in erotica. Smut is subjective, of course, what flips my switch does not necessarily flip yours, but when you find a universally intriguing premise of lust, connection, passion, power, desire or release and can express it in just the right way that it evokes the same emotional pull in others, it is worth all of the effort.

Hunger has long been associated with lust and longing, and in some ways this poem both defines and defies that description, as a good poem should.

Enjoy.

I AM INSATIABLE

Starving and silent, I prowl,
an esurient leopard in the barrens.
Meat does not satisfy me,
wine does not nourish.
I desire the rhythm of your silent steps
the fleet whisper of your smile
against my cheek,
the sunbeam warming your skin
before you lay it upon mine.

I covet what we already have,
golden moments like burnished bliss -
your strong, soft hands; sleek and ermine,
the plum of your shadow
on my wall,
the flame of your smile
when you think I do not see,
The metronome of your heart
held in my teeth;
your surrender makes me weak
with desire.

Acquiesce.
Give me license to do
as I will.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Grief Tattoos







GRIEF TATTOOS

There are moments that leave footprints on your soul,
abrasions upon your dignity,
when harbingers of the negative
impart with a lasting kiss
a grief tattoo,
lest you forget that you ever hurt.

Breathing of a wounded wind
is enough to remind you how badly it hurt,
enough to sear the memory into scar

I own no more of the sky than you,
yet that which surrounds me
is mine, and mine alone.

The question that remains,
the one that no answer will still,
is what do we do with the phantoms,
the ones who whip and play
within my hair,
the ones who cry out
with the voices of hemispheres
and speak directly to my blood?


Originally Published in "Grief Tattoos" - get the Kindle edition HERE