Layover Time
You have many names;numerous faces shifting
under my exertions
Your body
is the closest I can come
Your entry holes
are tunnels for dizzy entrance rushes;
mine-caves for tongues, thumbs
and blood-filled penetration pistons’
deep-probing speleology,
upright genitalia stretched
like meerkats and frightened bitterns
Your body
is a reception ceremony
without frills;
physical avant-gardism under the moon;
bang straight into the root-soak;
a docking organ worthy of a space station;
a panting, whipping prime position:
doggy or missionary equally dripping,
contentedly smacking in well-being,
sweat varnishing
the compelling circumstances of the act of love,
the consent contracts’ needs assessments
signed, witnessed and pinned up
along the walls,
Blonde On Blonde on repeat
while the almost Icelandic
ejaculation geysers groan the present age
with long layover times
Not even the horsemen of the apocalypse
ride as hard
You are a tornado in the pit of the stomach;
the small of the back sings,
you thunder and rain,
your faces flicker in the lightning flashes
from the underbellies’ irresistible jihad
Your body is the closest I can come
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-09 at 09:39
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