Solomon’s dilemma July 7, 2012

 

It isn’t his fault

The poor fool caught

Between friendship

And that other

Deeper

More passionate side,

A mentor who means

To serve as father

To us all

Trying to mediate

This clash between

Siblings,

(who make love

Behind his back

And then bicker)

Helpless to pick a side,

Throwing his hands up

Scared to admit

How much he loves

Them both,

Faced with the Solomon

Dilemma of choosing

Which one he

Loves more

And me,

The wounded child

Pressing him to

Decide, and

When he does,

Betraying him,

One more mean trick

Kids pick

When he (me) can’t

Get what we want

Or jealously can’t stand

When he gives her

the attention,

he(me) wishes

she could give me,

in the end

condemned to

decide

when there was

never a doubt

who he would,

who he loves best

and who I would have

picked, too,

had I been him.

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Maybe I'm amazed

 

That magic moment July 5, 2015

 

 

I want to lay her down and have my way with her, if she’d let me, or is it always the other way around, she chooses who gets to get inside her while we wait in line to see if we deserve her, lucky enough to grab the brass ring on this merry-go-round of life.

I ride her like a horse when she prefers to be a unicorn, that special aspect, singular difference stuck up between her legs, while my tongue does its magic.

I love the way it looks after the deed is done, the dangling drips on her dark body, like white pieces of fruit, dangling, as I admire my handywork, telling myself “I’m the one who did that,” the one who she let in, and I wonder if I beg her enough she might let me do it again, and more often, let me move around inside of her, this way and that, to make her scream, that magic moment.

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one way coversation June 17, 2012

 

 I pine for somebody

 who despised me, 

I post blogs I know 

she will read if only to keep a connection, 

a love triangle with me as the only participant,

 not merely unrequited,

more a need not to lose 

whatever it was I felt

when all this started, 

not to recover it, 

 more to mourn its loss, 

poetry is how I think,

how I feel, a way to reveal 

what it is that goes on 

inside my head without 

spilling my guts out 

to someone who otherwise 

might not want to hear it, 

this desperate one-way conversation 

I think she'll read 

(even if she doesn’t,

I say it when I can

 because its all I can do,

 like a kid with two tin cans

 attached by string, 

talking into one 

without the assurance 

there is anyone on

 the other end to hear, 

denied all the usual 

methods of communication,

 I write and put these in a bottle,

 sending them out 

into a hostile sea 

with the vain hope

she might take pity on me,

or at least come to understand.

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master of her universe June 19, 2012

 

 

I’m a stubborn son of a bitch.

I want to go to the party

 if only to prove I’m not afraid

 when in fact I’m scared to death.

The office gossip, 

who sees all and knows all 

even with me and her, 

frowns when I say I might attend,

 even as I quake in my shoes

at being in another bar 

where she can put on a show 

to get even with me, 

she is a master of that universe 

and has power to drawn men’s attention, 

and I am a sheep 

led by the nose to slaughter, 

no Daniel in that den of hers,

 while she may have a splinter in her paw,

 I am incapable to removing it, 

since I’m the one who put it there 

I’s a stubborn son of a bitch, 

but not stupid enough to be there

 to give her the spike she might

 smite me with,

 my already vivid imagination

 filling in all the details.

I have no need to see if for real.

 

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These longest days. Dec.6, 2012

  

In these closing days I’ve come to accept that I might never get what I wanted from the start, although exactly how I feel remains unclear, yet still tender, coals from a blaze I once embraced, the intensity of which has long faded, even though I still feel consumed, something occasionally sparking to life what all seemed dead, when we all knew from even in those earliest days, a fire this hot could not endure, no fire no matter how hot every does, Blues filling half the days this time of year when darkness lasts the longest, and I feel the chill of winter deep in my bones, aware of the shreds of cloud that covers my love life like a shroud, the land scape littered with hints of you, embers that still provide me with just enough warmth – if never hope, raising me out of the apocalypse of my own creation, restirring coals just enough to feel a bit of warmth again, your face, your presence, your ever-lasting spirit, haunting me, even though clearly remote, the slanted winter sun doing little to illuminate my world, simply giving me glimpses of what used to be.

 erotic stories

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Singed fingers July 4, 2015

 

I still singe my fingers on her, the way I always did as a kid in my grandmother’s kitchen, told not to touch the flames, I can never resist,. Even this late in the game when I ought to have learned from experience and yet cannot hold back, to touch or tase, even though she is far too hot to handle, too sweet and not get stung, I can’t help but let myself get singed, again and again, even in memory, even when distance should make it all safe, a remote romance, unrequited, as best it should be, I know if allowed in her kitchen I will only cook myself, singe more than just my fingers, so I settled for recollections of the burning I felt back then, when we came too close, her open flames roaring over me until my wings melted and I grew too dizzy to think, and not all this because of what I might feel when touching or being touched, but for the face she is what is, an irresistible flame that still illuminates my life, and I cannot help wishing to be near her – too near.

 

 erotic stories

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