passion

Living without passion

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Without conflict could we still survive, would we still want to live in our ever revolving faceless world of placation? Would we miss having fire in our bellies? Miss having passion and love and anger? Without emotion are we even really living or merely existing?

If you were able to live forever without the fresh breeze on your face, or the spray of the waves of the sea falling in mists on your skin, or without ever hearing the rising call of the lark or feel the warmth on the skin of your cheek: would this be living?

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Time flies

The twist of a hand, the arc of a spine
The comforting growls of content
Glistening foreheads moistened with fervor
Candles to enhance the scent
Damp skin under nails, a rise of the hips
Teeth biting down on a sheet
A focused anxiety, converted to zeal
And soon the night is complete

Crossing the threshold

You trespass, on the edge of my borders
Tiptoe through the barricades
And hover at the frame

After patting down the dirt
Covering your tracks
In fear of being discovered

I find you, alarmed
A hare, dazed in the headlights
Frozen, but for the consistent twitch

In the distance sirens wail out a warning
The gate gapes wide in the wind
Yet still we persist

In that moment existence is shattered
I welcome the oncoming storm.

When you sleep…

She likes to watch you breathe

To stroke the rise of your chest

As ribs fall, exhausted into flesh

You don’t stir – yet she plants kisses

Across the tops of your thighs

Fingers the crease, of your knee,

Slips a slender palm into your clenched fist

 

As you sleep

She absorbs your heat

Closing her limbs around you

Just, as Ivy claims aΒ tree

Using your skin as a canvas

She moulds your form, to fit hers

Breathing life into your dreaming corpse

Nuzzling your slack jaw, until

It wakens with a sigh

Allowing her to nestle: a queen bee

Surrounded by the petals of your drowsy love

 

 

 

 

 

It will all work out

This isn’t working for me. Isn’t working in the setting of the sun or the waking of the dawn when the birds croak out a morning chorus to wake the tree. It isn’t working in the drops of the rain that fall in the middle of the night calling out names to people who can no longer hear them. It doesn’t work for me that every time I see a small glimpse of hope flickering between the pebbles and the cliff tops that you tell me it’s just an illusion that there is nothing really there: just maybe a firefly breathing his final breathe.

This no longer works for me

The soft insinuation that things will be ok, that I will be ok, at sometime and some point. The dull thudding in my heart when I hear what you don’t say and know that you couldn’t, only to be able to hear it ten times louder than any other constant noise. It’s the slow droning that nags my earlobes and pulls the despair out of my mind and onto the paper. That sheer expression of nonsensical love and what it means to have it, to recognise and hold onto it for dear life.

This isn’t working out for me

To be able to dance in the autumn light of a harvest moon but never truly taste the bounty. To steal a grape from the great cornucopia of life yet never be able to let it reach my lips and feel it’s cool skin pressed against mine. To allow the acorns to nestle in safe pockets of earth protected from harm yet never to see them rise into strong reliant Oaks. To never feel the rush of the wind filter through my hair yet watch it blow the leaves into submission. To have the sea air cling to my lips yet never allow my aching tongue to taste it.

These are things that don’t work out for me

You don’t work out for me

Strategically placed scarf

In daring days, on cooler nights

You tremble

Lips quivering, hands peruse

Soft angles of flesh

Delicate notes of vanilla pods

Dance under nostrils

Weaving intoxication into the air

And loins

Warm tingles spread – grinning

Like Cheshire cat with cream

And all at once the urge

To pounce

Upon unsuspecting mouth

Hot with anticipated breath

Oh, restrained font of desire

If only you could see, as I do

Our Merry Dance

Ginni bites!

Each evening you leave me,

Amongst broken whips and chains.

Yet every night, I follow you,

Like a dog.

Keeping notes of your pleasures,

your midnight secrets,

Your dreams.

And in the morning l lie,

Weary and worn, but wanting.

Then you leave me again.

This is our dance, you and I

Our waltz of passion,

My tango of shame.

You play out the steps well,

And I am a fool for your tune.

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