precious stones 2014

  

my love is not a diamond

 as some old poets might suggest

no sharp edges upon which

 I might cut myself

nor is she a nugget gold

 so Grand all men lust after her

 precious and yet not as appealing

 as I might achieve

 my love is a pearl

her skin so smooth

her touch so cool

easy to take under my tongue

to revel on her

to digest her

 as if I am the oyster that gave her birth

my fingers stroking her

 polishing her

feeling her curved flesh

 as vivid in my brain

as if I could see her blind

more precious than all

the precious stones

and all I could ever want

email to Al Sullivan

Kind and true aug 5,2024

  

ancient poets tell us

that she being free

or witty or pretty

does not always make her attractive

but rather how kind and true

a quality I'd not appreciated

 that for the right partner

the fitting partner

she can be kind and true

the rest of us lost in the fog

 of our attraction for her

her will, her eyes

 her smile, her breast

building a fire in our hearts

over what we see in her

 but maybe not what she is inside

kind and true

this aspect the most attractive

and yet all the rare

set aside for some lucky man

who is gentle enough

 and kind enough

to see who she really is inside

email to Al Sullivan

A kiss thief Oct. 22, 2025

  

I can’t say for sure, who kissed who or even why, a stolen kiss in the dark of night, I would never give back, a thief in the night who steals kissed whenever I can, filling a vacant space with them for a time when I might be too infirmed to steal anything anymore, a bandit who uses kisses instead of a gun, stopping you on the street demanding affection instead of treasure, no mask – maybe only a patch over my right eye – to delude you as to who I am and what I’ve come for. I always love to collect, steal your lips, maybe your heart, to keep it forever, long after you may have forgotten why I came at all.

email to Al Sullivan

Ghost of Four Star March 28, 2026

  

Four Star isn’t Four star, even though the sign in the parking lot still bears that name, and inside as well as out, it looks the same, red and silver glowing on a street made heavy by the mausoleum-like performance space Catholics used to use to crucify Christ every year this time, a place still filled with the echoes of His passion, I brought my mother to see back in 1976, though these days I’m more haunted by the sacrifice in the Four Star the back of my hands still bleed from self-inflicted wounds, ghosts of the past always here to haunt us, even after all these years.

 

email to Al Sullivan

The drip July18, 2015

 

 

It drips onto her lips and I can’t resist, a Chinese torture that so pleases me, though as I look down into her upturned gaze, I wonder, does she like it as much as I do, and what more I could give her to please her as much as she pleases me, the drips of it onto her lips, and hips, and all her exposed parts, and then into the space unveiled when her legs part. I am a filling station that fills her up, not with petro, but with someone much more potent until my tank runs dry, and all that is left is the drip, drip, drip, and I wonder, does she like this the way I do, or am I just wasting time, torturing myself, looking to paint her with what I have do offer. Does she want it, too?

email to Al Sullivan

Which side is she really on November 23rd 2012

 

She switched sides, or so rumor claims, when I already know this cannot be trusted, she might sleep with the enemy but down deep she keeps Faith with the side she started with, using any role she needs to get what she needs or wants, love has nothing to do with it, not yet anyway, not this time, and I hear rumors without evidence, she will switch sides when I know damned well she won't, not yet, not until she gets a better offer, and the other side who invited her in, laid out their plans, can't see that deceptive Glow in her eyes, how she absorbs it all only to regurgitated later for the side she is really on, this plan or that, unveiled, undone, her job done, and she didn't even need to sleep with anyone to achieve it, not yet, not until she feels the need to, or desire to, each man wrapped around a different finger, like magic rings she can use at need, she choosing sides for her own convenience, when the whole time she's on no side but her own, this a new venture, different from what she needed to do when with us, relied on to dig up the dirt needed for her side -- if it is hers -- to win

Stranded

 July 17th 2015 

A small boat floats out in the middle of the wide river and i sympathize, almost lost in the haze this season brings, an Early morning mist that does nothing to lift the anguish we feel here, alone, rising to the tides and the rising heat we have no way to relieve, less self-satisfaction than the need for peace, alone on a river the leaves us stranded with no way to reach either shore, gripping my paddle with which I stroke slowly, making little progress yet to do something to erase this is better than doing nothing at all, wishing to be stranded with you, when this is not possible, perhaps never was, the mist, dreamlike in the nightmare, more like night sweats as I grip the oar and paddle my way, hoping to reach any shore at all