Tag Archives: sex

Common Aphrodite

Aphrodite
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Eyes shuttered,
she climbs naked
into his mouth,
 

kneels on his tongue
and utters
an invocation
 

that somewhere
in the pink-dusked frenzy
that will follow
 

he will taste
the mirrored grain
of her veiled celestial sister.
 
 

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Equus Ferus

Horse 1
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

He arrives mid-morning,
pawing the hot dust,
blunt thrust of snorting muscle
penetrating the corral.
 

His scent punches the air;
damp and pungent,
the rumbling aftershock
shoulder-charging my nostrils.
 

He parades, slowly,
rippled flanks
drip-feeding lusty morsels
as I resist the pull to approach.
 

The rope is coiled
and dry in my hands;
a flaccid snake that dare not
harness his sculpted throat.
 

I undress, wait,
quivering in the dirt,
while unshod hooves
imprint concentric whispers.
 

He comes to me, quietly,
in hard, shallow breaths,
allows me to grasp his withers,
clamber onto his unsaddled back.
 

I lower my quiet ache
to his dark neck,
animal heat flushing,
and it is in this brief fracture,
 

his body clasped to my breast,
his unspoken verse
pressed to my temples,
that we commune.
 
 

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Helios and other bedfellows

bed3
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We wake to sunshine;
 

not the bland lemony light
that fingers blonde venetians,
 

but a fizzing mirrorball,
blistering
between linens,
 

livid,
and white to the touch.
 

Later,
 

limbs smouldering
in the ruck of scorched sheets,
 

fingertips
trace vellum palms,
 

sifting
 

for the tender balm
of borrowed verse.
 
 

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Stay

Stay
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

When it’s over
 

when rawthroat simmers
raindrum stills
 

breath deepens
howls subside
 

when jagged moon
tumbles hallelujah
 

dog rose petalfolds
evening moist
 

when cannons quiet
arms circle soft
 

mercury dips cool
on tender tongues
 

when coils
++++++u n r a v e l
++++++++++++caffled balm
 

stay
 

please
 

++++++just
++++++stay
 
 

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Thermals

 

all it took
was an equinox breeze
squeezed between lips
ripe hips flimsy
beneath
green petalled shift
 

pink possibility
of restraint
blushed aside
palpable craving
brushstroking nap
 

red thorns stripped from
burgeoning stem
fish-hooking sepal
clasped bud arced
 

all it took
 

was me
and you
in the aching calescence of
an autumn
afternoon
 
 

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Commune


 

Apart ++circling for days, delicious possibility
++++++pirouetting the moor, saturating
++++++the floor of our thudding ache.
 

Closer ++soft reservations trickle
++++++between sun-bleached pebbles;
++++++feeble saltwater restraint.
 

Shaking +sharing a last shallow breath,
++++++the ground tips, slipping us,
++++++defenceless, into a reckless sky.
 
 

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Solaris


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Shiver-watching:
 

his body rises from the
slow water
++++++shaking,
 

sweeping sou’westerly
lifting salt beads
from his skin.
 

I lie
pale-golden
+++++++and glistening
+++++++++++++++waiting
 

for his feverish tongue
to slip
across cooldamp dunes.
 

Stem arced,
aching for the crest
+++++++++++I realise
 

it is not he
who has ascended
to burn above me
 

but I
who have tipped towards him
 

as naturally as the earth tilts,
+++++++++++++++++seeking
its sun.
 
 

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Taylor on Burton


 

He came;
swaggering incendiary,
Celtic virility dripping
from his rim,
gravelly timbre
raking each glassy breath.
 

Vows lost
amid wedded shards,
freefall shapes blown
of our own viscous chaos,
twisted stem highballs
splintering
amid unstable natron flux.
 

We poured ourselves
into a decade, oblivious,
lolled
in hot, sticky carnality,
sluiced scotch
on cut-glass rocks
scooped from cold crystal
to tranquilise engorged
fuck-heat fingers.
 

Scorched,
fire-cut and ruined,
we retreated
to misshapen solid
states, mixing virulent
cracked lacquer cock tales
of medicated misery
and miscast lovers
 

until blistered and bloated,
clasped in the cold grip
of the parison,
he bled into the Céligny night,
 

leaving me to languish,
crushed,
ribboned red,
marbling centuries of loss
on blue-glaze Portland,
clutching his script
in death-wax hands.
 
 

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Burton on Taylor


 

She came;
violet eyes brazing,
hair liquid black,
after-birthed
from Morfa’s glutted seam.
 

She blessed and burnt
my summer daze,
a crucible of white heat,
her gleaming teeth
cursed, dispersed
the icy hellions
of my bleak winters.
 

We raged with it,
the horn-ridden beast,
hollered as we let it claw
our clothes, rip ecstasy
from our throats, gouge
our eyes with the taloned
beauty of idolised youth.
 

Ten years we burned
between the sun and its
mutant reflection,
amid lust
and sallow loathing,
quaffing piss-amber
liquor between
fighting and fucking
 

until molten and wet,
she snaked from my
volcanic mouth,
left me spent and spewing,
to roam the sodden streets;
livid, raw, weeping whisky
into soot-filled gutters,
scuttling the gulf
of snot-drowned grief,
 

an ashen shadow of a man
bearing the red welt
of a life half-lived,
without her.
 
 
 
 
 

~ Bit of a departure for me. I’m fascinated by the relationship between Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. They had a passionate, tempestuous marriage between 1964 and 1974, remarrying 16 months after their divorce, the second marriage lasted less than a year. He likened their marriage to rubbing two sticks of dynamite together.
 

Burton died of a brain haemorrhage in August 1984. He was buried in a red suit, a tribute to his Welsh roots, and with a copy of Dylan Thomas’s poems, many of which he had recorded to great acclaim. Burton wrote Taylor countless love letters over the years, even when they were apart. His last was delivered to her home three days after his death. She died 27 years later in March 2011 and was buried with the letter.
 

I’ve tried to write this from Burton’s point of view after they divorced in 1974. You kinda have to imagine his deep, rich Welsh voice to get the full effect. If you don’t know what he sounded like check out the link – hands down the best reading of Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle.
 

Richard Burton reads Dylan Thomas

 

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eos


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

stirring
in denim sifted dunes,
dawn’s canvas light
baptising
cedar-scented skin,
 

fingers flex;
weaving last night’s
woodsmoke mementos
through the soft folds
of morning’s pink craving.
 
 

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