Just an opinion

Nothin' Says Lovin' . . .

Nothin' says lovin'
like the lightning bolts
of pupil contact
eye to eye
instant evaluation:
size up, shape up,
strip search to uncover
the cover up
and turn libido on,
buttons pressed
flesh undressed
eyes dilated to the grim
view of pubic triangles
plunging to his waiting tongue
and lips sucking her hypotenuse
while she grips his tangential staff
probing the secrets of her mind.

Then, they meet.

Nothin' says lovin'
like the tingle of fingertips
first touching, sensing the tepidity
of curious flesh on bony fingers
trembling with the new adventure
hands sweeping trapeze-like
until they seize each other
like aerialists' hands on wrists
first touch: commitment to accompaniment,
or venture out
to break proverbial ice
(that's nice)
and melt all inhibitions.

Later, fingers walk the magic mile,
graze the crevice,
make Mona Lisa's smile
more than what it's cracked up to be,
the long one first,
then the other
or three
to pry the liquid walls apart
and plug the cervical crown
thumbs up
and let her drown
while she, shattered, shrieks,
gulping, gasping, in and out
on a seesaw
while he watches:
she contorts
eyes rolling
open, closed,
between retorts
of NO!
articulated together
without a pause
until nausea
set in
and he stopped.

She's got to hand it to him:
he's good;
she's better,
deeper, wetter;
and they met just moments ago
and found each other interesting enough,
one in each other's mind,
each pondering the same:
"What's your name?"
(not that it really matters)
they ask each other,
surprised, they surmised,
walked quietly, barefoot,
but naked in their minds,
and found each other quietly,
happier for the meeting
in the park.

Nothin' says lovin'
like lips and tongues
wrestling each other,
countless falls
and pins (no calls)
from each other
sucking the breath,
sparring, probing
with tongue well-oiled
drenched in spit
to brush the facial clit
in pseudo-sexual excitation,
flailing away
to take the mind and sway it
from the vaginal goal,
ultimate persuasion,
new invasion of her privacy
(of her private parts):
he stands upright
ready to fire
in his brief encounter
and reload
twenty minutes later (maybe).

Nothin' says lovin'
like shower power
hot spray
washing tell-tale
liquid leakage to the drain
without the pain
of anyone's knowing whose it is:
his sticky droplet clinging
hers adhering
to the hot-bed sides
still thundering,
hammer-like pounding
till she squeezed her legs
and squashed it.

Waterfalls from stainless steel
chrome and copper spouts,
rainfall showers
in a stall for one
crammed full with two,
dripping sweat and soapsuds
into cracks and furrows
where the cock crows --
cock grows, burrows
deeply in the cave
where nothing grows;
bubbles making highway tracks
to ankle-deep slosh:
the aftermath,
or prelude,
to satin sheet magic.

Nothin' says lovin'
like bouncing bed springs
to La Bamba "Toons"
(or Beethoven)
hormones hieing horizontally
in one of sixty-nine positions
(missionary for one)
knocking knees aligned
with nipples
mounting Alpine peaks,
his lips compressed
upon the pubic mound
licking all around
hers lapping at the leaking column
of once-limp muscle
lunging willingly at her receptacle.

Nothin' says lovin'
like the heat beneath the sheet,
a mantle on the bloated bodies
of two (or more) erotic masses
doing pushups,
ramrod thrusts
exploring some new territory
in virgin foliage
romper-room like
until they tucker out,
pull out slowly
and leave each other
groaning about nothing much.

Nothin' says lovin'
like lust
in bed
or in the head
where fantasies abound
new-found in hallucination


Lovin' says nothin'
if the shattered lover
wakens from the restless dream
to find his fiction flowing in the stream
of his subconscious ignorance,
that love is just a state of mind,
accidental game of chance,
to some unloved,
to all too blind.

Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 984 times
Written on 2006-12-10 at 19:22

Tags Erotic  Love  Adult 

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Chris Fernie
Dear NotaDeadPoet,

This is a forensically good analysis of the love of lust and the lust of love. At least, I think it is...

Cheers, Chris