Tonight
alone
this dark place is lit
with the deep fire of
my longing
lay on my back
and all i dream
is your round ass
smelling of the earth
riding me
Tonight
alone
this dark place is lit
with the deep fire of
my longing
lay on my back
and all i dream
is your round ass
smelling of the earth
riding me
I’ve started writing again. It always seems like you never will again when you aren’t for a while. Last weekend I was addled with the inability to write. I burnt incense for it. I prayed and spelled for it. I prayed to God the Father and to gods and goddesses, every spirit for it. I prayed to the spirits of the characters to come whisper to me and tell me their stories.
When a story is going to work you just know it. It just comes and unweaves itself to you. When it isn’t unweaving it is whispering, beckoning to you.
When you came to me it was after
we had talked on the phone all day
long and I felt like I knew you then,
felt like I was kissing you and I was
like abishag in the house of myrrh
and you were Solomon and, man,
when you came into the house you
bent down like some giant, I reached
up for the fruit on the tree and you
kissed me, thick and wet and lay across
my bed, stretched out like the rod
between my thighs saying
‘you can undress me’
and I did and I said I will taste you
and you let me, let me kiss your mouth,
your eyes, your nipples. We lay together,
you stroked my cock that night,
marveling at darkness,
wondering at brownness and I at your bigness,
at the beautifulness of your thighs,
the hang of balls, the walls of muscle on your marvelous body,
the tear in the corner of your eye,
how I made you cry, how your cock wept,
leapt, pleading with the salty tear of semen
at its fragile tip,
slip, slip
into love
that night
