Poems on the subject of love making, part 2.

What

was I meant

to do.

She stared at me,

as if she were famished

for something sweet,

and my face

was a pastry

in a glass case.

You know the look,

you've felt it take shape in your cheek muscles

standing in line at the bakery.

I was caught in two beams of light

or two radiant spheres

or two precious stones

or two headlights

headed for an imminent train wreck.

blinded by the glare

there was no evasive option,

but to awkwardly eschew her invitation

would be a cowards denial,

a nervous consternation.

I dispatched a kiss,

landed my warm sponge over her fleshy pillows

and slowly expounded upon the exposition,

the rolling tides of lip

over lip

over lip

struggling to drown her lip

under my lip

the succulent meal of that upper lip.

Theme one

was mouths pressed into a brawl

for an unassailable satisfaction,

but when I stood back and took a breath,

I could see Theme two curved around her pupil,

in warped reflections

there appeared my desperation.

I could hear words uttered gently

that carried the impediment of sadness,

and I could feel the weight in my lungs

that staggered my tremulous breathes.

What

was I meant

to do.

She stared at my face,

and prognostic images

of archetypal love

swung about my head,

the smoky shroud of my imagination,

concealing the premonition

of pain.

If I could only be satisfied with her stare.

Poems on the subject of love making, part 1.

If you fill a bowl with his words
you'd call it refuse
even with the way he
delicately
drizzles them over your ear lobe
as they course along
the curves of your cartilage
they are viscous, slimy
bubbling with saliva.

The solidarity you're meant to
Feel
with his boisterous declarations
declarative decadence
his irreverence of love
couldn't make it past Last Night.
the last sip,
the last staggering steps,
that land in dreamless, drunk slumber.
The prideful pose
The parched innards, empty,
where the joy of discovering
indecipherable sun spots under another's eyelid
is meant to
flood every passage way, every cavity
but leak the countless ounces of that warm fluid
through the puncture wounds of pain
and loss.
"I can bind every muscle with your passion
and at will I can shrug it off," he'll say.
Then proceed to talk about a woman like she's the county fair.
"Her booty is a moon bounce,
her breasts scoops of ice cream,
her vagina is a water slide,
Boy, I can just hear the circus music when she walks."
But he'll slam the door on you, and cry in secret.
Dripping on to the body of his lover, left unsatisfied.