fusion

 That night we were husband and wife on a molecular level,

I wonder,

Did you consume any of my dna,

Or did everything really spill out on my fitted sheet?

I try to believe that at least some of me 

Had been absorbed by you in the most cellular way, 

Though most of me had been blocked to spill out on the bed.

Your IUD took care of that.

And now it’s a stain on my mattress.

Still, I’m now absorbed in you in my most abstract thoughts,

Ignorant of the vast space between atoms 

Which we have no means of perceiving.

For days afterwards, I didn’t hear from you

And you were only in the dark matter of my dreams,

Retaining that energy as we stretched and expanded.

You were accelerating from my center and

I don’t know why.

Gift

 You surprise me with a gift

Presented on your knees

Your touch, reaching, means supplication

You offer to take something from me as your gift.

You offer to deliver me from my tension, my surplus, my weight,

A reprieve from urgency and impatience.

You communicate this to me as an art, a dance,

A giving of your music;

Sounds, affection and sensual movement.

In this, I find purchase in you,

Contained by you.

You watch me, feel me

Growing, knowing

That you possess me.

I am possessed.

Ecstacy, joy, bliss

Oh how I adore you

A triumphant exhultation

I surrender to you and you are proud,

The reward of love.

Angel, you have served me.

The Strangest Thing Is To Love

 The strangest thing is to love, but not so deeply that you lose yourself and can’t recover.  Love seems to be an infinite, bottomless thing and it is easy to lose yourself in such enormity.  It is really like an addiction; it is an absolute, its borders so far out that, to reach them would exhaust you, quite literally.  Love deeply but don’t lose sight of yourself, don’t live that love in spite of yourself.     Because of its immense size, it is a dangerous thing.  Sweet as it can be, you need to keep your wits about you.  You need to be self-aware.  Like the elements, love can be as wonderful as a sunny day, but it is a force of nature still, and can be as disastrous as a shift in the foundations of the earth.

Venus

 The sun is setting.

The horizon of shadow

Rises above the trees

And is lost in the open air.

The children are asleep now.

We are their parents,

We have given our days to them.

Venus is above us, looking down.

She grows stronger as the light fades.

I can hear her voice.

She speaks and I turn to you.

I tell you what she wants you to hear…

evaporation

 I still feel the heat of the bed, the fire before sleep, so beautiful in its act, yet always laced with a delicious guilt to follow. You sleep, spent, swept away by the wave of your orgasms. Have I laid you out? Have I thrown you into this sleep to rest? I love you as you lay, lain. I watch you as you breathe, relish your mortality; the imposition of your body next to me. I'm spent along with you, but I feel the joy of endorphins, watching you as the sweat on our bodies evaporates and the coldness of the night settles on us. I kiss your cold, naked shoulder. Soon I will fumble for the blankets and pull them over us but for now we are warm and the coolness of the approaching night brings us to the balance that comes with sleep.

Petition

 Our groins still moist from lovemaking,

We lay on the cool sheets,

Naked in the white light.

I am declaring myself happy

Imploring God to leave me this way.

Cuckold

 Men often come on to you, attracted to your vitality, your vivaciousness and your physical magnetism. I love it when you come home and tell me about a man who has tried to pierce the strength of your fidelity. He, like all the rest, uses an ancestry of innuendoes, thousands of years old, millions of attempts dry and you roll your eyes at how droll they are. I imagine what he sees in you, that spark of attraction and lust that draws them in to you. I see you with their eyes and couldn't agree more. I see the woman you are, walking into the room, radiating sexuality and heat. You become a quantum possibility to them, a route towards gratification as deep as the vessel of their bodies. I want you just the same, but I have the grace of your favour and this is my eternal advantage. When I have you in our conjugal bed, I feel like I am stealing the experience from him, which heightens the arousal for me. I take that part of his life and make it mine. I take what he tried to steal away from me, and make you completely mine. I am no longer the cuckold. He is. Our orgasms are his punishment for trying. I steal his dream with all the voraciousness that he'd had in reserve. All possibilities are mine, all opportunities are mine. This is me, thanking him for the inspiration.

Affection

 I look at you and am ignited,

Aroused.

Thoughts fall on a delicious memory,

The lingering sense of you.

My mind returns to that moment and energy

Radiates through me;

heat and light.

You are a sovereign system inside me,

like my heartbeat,

like my breathing.

My desire is the wind against me,

The sky,

breadth and depth,

The ocean shifting and moving my body,

rising and falling, swaying and swinging.

I'm immersed in thoughts of you,

Moulded by impressions so as to be liquid and shapeless.

You are gravity, I am so yours.

Prism of my senses,

You unite all elements of my body,

Bring them into focus

Then make them brilliant.

In The Ambit of Jupiter

 I am in the ambit of Jupiter; a satellite of hers, held in her gravity; her presence looming over half of my sky.  I now know the size of love.  It is planet-sized.  It is so big so as to seem without end.  To live in the globe of providence is to see eternity.  She is the goddess of providence to me, like the Roman god;  Jupiter.  All good things come from her.  If it doesn’t come at first, all I have to do is be patient and wait.  I can sit alone in the living room, with the television on and the sounds coming in and I can feel lost in her absence though she is only in the other room, doing what she does and she will eventually come into the room and move towards me, generating my senses towards her, drawing my attention to her as she sits next to me.  She will reach out with her hand and carress my thigh, stroking me deeply til her smallest finger brushes my crotch, giving me that intimate attention and my life is sent to her through the air, through the divide between us.  I can reach out and hold her shoulder and close that divide so her body is against mine and I will feel the deepest satisfaction and joy, as if life has found its center and can cease its petulant flux in satisfaction.  I never have to wait long to feel this.  We make love at least three times a day still, because I never want to be without for very long.  In that, she makes me feel like a god, too.  A rumbling god on the mountain, wanting supplication.  I can take these intimate moments and become more powerful, stand and make demands.  She always confirms my faith in the bounty of the world and she does so joyously. Sometimes after making love to her, I am so spent, that I roll over onto the bed, feeling ten times heavier than I actually am.   I feel as if I am pressed down into the mattress, held in a powerful physical pull that refuses to let me rise.  My heart pounds and my lungs rush to catch up and I am overwhelmed by the euphoria that has filled my arteries.  This is the rapture.  I look over to Theia, so close to me she encompasses most of my vision and is blurred.  She too is enthralled in her own throes of gravitational bliss.  She might look back at me and we may laugh at ourselves.  Other times we are lost to each other in our moony solitudes.  It is only when our bodies come down from these heights that we can rise and walk on wobbly legs and weak knees off the bed and to wherever we need to go.  The first step off the bed is always the hardest.

Breathing and Arousal

 There’s a certain kind of breathing

I have when I’m sleeping or at rest.

It’s deep and complete,

From soul to air.

I lay naked and moulded to the mattress,

The cool air of the open window touching me.

There’s a kind of breathing I do when I’m on my bike

It feeds my rushing blood, chases my speed,

Yet catches the rhythm of my movement,

The machinations of my body

Racing through the air I pass through.

There is a kind of breath I breathe

When I’m rolling over the force of an orgasm

Holding back its imminence.

It’s even and controlled, Deep and cleansing,

Soul to air, core to you.

When I allow the rush to take over,

I scream out, rend the air,

Force it out and spend myself

Then fall and lay at your side

And the breathing is the same, completely.

Secret World

 We meet in a dark, empty and unfamiliar place, coming from different peripheries, different worlds, separate. Somehow we meet, a calibration of fate. I look outside, out windows, out doors, across the divide and see you looking back. The first connection; superficial, secular, worldly. Reality suspends itself, splits with possibilities, choices, a fracturing of sensibilities.

Our lives shift with one simple movement.

Geography changes, our continents drift closer to one another.

Things that were local move away, things that were foreign move closer.

I step quietly out through the door of my house, drive through darkness to another country, another realm. We meet. You open your door to me. My body enters your house and you welcome me, warm. I am inside. Our lives, our hands now touch. Our hearts face each other, meeting. Our limbs cross one another, our tongues; instruments of orality, they touch. Our bodies overlap. I slide into you, enter your body and you invite me, pull me in. Your body is a new sphere, a vessel, a vehicle, accepting my entrance. Inside you, I expand and spread. This is discovery, this is rebirth, a new conception of life.

Into your body, I have expatriated.

With each other’s bodies, we found a new world. It becomes our secret world, this new colony that we hold. Nightly, I bridge to you, sending ropes to tether our union, internet cables, telephone lines. If I am not joined to your body, I am joined to your words. Each time, the span solidifies and grows, holding and joining. The gap between us is now only a border, a walk across land. There has been a shift, a turn in our geography: what was close is now distant, what was distant is now close. Soon my loyalties transfer over to you and I am with you.

Our blanket is over us, my leg is draped over yours, my masculinity settled into the groove of your thighs, still wet, forever warm, forever a perfect fit. Your breast is in my hand, your heart beats underneath, my heart still thundering against your back. For thousands of years, for the span of geological time, I will praise you, my mistress. You deserve that time.

Possession

 You like it rough. You like the feeling of being ravished, but not ravaged. The feeling of being controlled makes you feel like a woman possessed. You open yourself fully and completely. You submit. My weight on you brings you to climax. I wrap my arm around your back, hold your hair behind your head, fuck you deeply. This aggression takes sex beyond consideration, beyond anything in this world. It becomes only itself- fucking. Cosmic, transcendent, another dimension finding and opening.

I hold you, pull on you, take you close so I can possess you. Because you are mine.

This is the extreme act of fidelity, the purest form of marriage, where it matters most- the giving of oneself.

I am liberated in my aggression.

Truly, I feel. I act truly.

But in the end, it is you who authors my anguish in ecstacy.

After you have had your thousand orgasms,

I fuck you until you allow me to cum.

Danse D'Eros

 She likes the tattoos on his skin. They adorn him with colour and texture. She likes the way they crease and stretch, the sensuality of their movement. She adorns herself as well, the way he likes it, applying her makeup thick so as to rub off on him, leave her colours upon his where they would touch. He is a very visual lover. With him, sex is always an affair with light, with movement; always a theatre for the eyes. Their encounters always start with a long, played out sensual overture. A danse d’Eros. It seems to mean more to him than the actual sex. The actual act seems to be anticlimactic to him, only the release to the tension he builds with her.

He asks her again to dance for him, to move around him sensually and she obliges, showing him the completeness of her body, hiding nothing from him, posing, gyrating, twisting. She makes a spectacle of herself and he sits, shirtless, watching. She can see his cock rising inside his jeans and it is for this; this phallic idol, that she dances. She knows she is not the only woman that will do this for him, but she knows she holds his attention at this moment, for this string of shallow moments, which pass by one after another. She moves sensuously from pose to pose, watching at his reaction. If he likes it, she remains in that position to give him a longer view; if not, she moves to another. When he finally invites her to touch him, she does so carefully, looking into his eyes as she does. She reaches down and runs her fingers over his penis through the denim of his jeans. He moans from the look of desire on her face; her eager countenance. She unbuttons him and frees his cock. His eyes watch hers. She never breaks the contact, knowing he needs to see the look on her face. As she takes him into her mouth, he moves her hair to the side, holds it in a bun behind her head, all the while watching her lips move over his cock, wanting to see the act of fellatio being performed on him. She moans for effect, but it is the sight of her that makes him hard, looking into his eyes, moving her mouth as she does for visual effect, painting her lipstick onto him, all she can taste is lipstick. Watch me, her eyes say to him as she runs her tongue along his shaft. She gives a smile when he moans and he smiles back. He never initiates coitus, but when he starts fucking her mouth, she knows he’s ready. It’s only when she stands and descends on him that he receives her this way. It always starts with her on top so he can watch her descend on his cock. She rides him for a while until he takes over with the rhythm; the act becoming his. He lifts her, throws her onto the couch and takes over, thrusting into her angrily. All the while, he searches her eyes as if he is trying to recognize her. She cannot close her own eyes, she keeps them locked on his, never denying him the view. As always, his exertion is never long, always intense and brief. He quickly pulls out of her as he begins to climax and cums. Watching his seed spurt out upon her skin brings him over the edge completely. Only then, he closes his eyes, rears his head back and roars through his orgasm.

She lies spread on the bed like a blanket, covered. She closes her eyes. He is not looking, lost in his glory.