Thursday, 13 May 2010

Erotica 8 (End) - A Perfumed Paradox


They have grown and shifted like parallel universe's separated by space and time and distance.

Star crossed lovers bound by silken cords tied at wrist and ankle.

The taste of passion is water melon cool, water melon and bourbon, ice and fire. Distance and time interlocked and woven like fabric that wraps around their twin shoulders of deception, a cloth of imagination that holds them captive to the random creation of their hearts and souls
The thought of your smell haunts me. The thought of your taste taunts me.
Life isn't like that though, life is never that easy, life flows within them and with out them and floods their minds and senses with too much information; information and imagination working double overtime.
Your skin moves me; the thought of it makes me weep, soft and warm and supple

The stars rotate as they echo the lust of days, of weeks, of months and again the engine of his desire drives his thoughts to distant places with exotic climes where chocolate eyes perceive hidden truths as birdsong breaks the dawn with an alien chorus.

You are moist, you are hot and I fill you with me, deep and long and firm. You grip the headboard with knuckles white as I drive my hardness into you; animal grunts from me, hushed groans from you. I run my hand across the curve of your belly, over the soft swell of your breast until my fingers curl around your neck

Time moves within its central continuum, a river of events within a stream of happenings, unconnected perhaps, disjointed certainly but still moving then changing and shifting. A pebble falls in decades to come, two lovers kiss seconds ago. shifting movements as sensual as lips.

Your mouth calls me, lips a mirror of your sex open to take me and I rise in expectation. 

And the thought remains a mystery, foggy and unfulfilled, a thought of sex between conceptual beings, beings as ephemeral as desire, beings as far removed from each other as Venus from Mars, a promise of union like the mating of whales: powerful and dangerous.

He holds her panties in his hand and then lifts them to his face, to his nose and then breathes her in, a musky thought of never-to-be.
A perfumed paradox

Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.

No comments:

Follow by Email



A Utility Fish Shed Blog

A Utility Fish Shed Blog