Revision because it didn't seem complete. . .
Manipulating breasts erect
with nipples elongated, tall –
my fingers rolled as if a ball
exciting me, both tips as eager
as they often were
now sensuously satisfied.
Both lips surrendered to my loving tongue
an oral organ moist and stiff
pressing on each lip as if
preparing to make daring plunge
between both lips below, above,
where oft they once enjoyed the love,
the lust, the passion, languid rims
resisting nothing, there they play
a gentle fugue, conductor less.
My open eyes saw dancing shadows
flickers frolicking with the flames
which formed such fearless faceless shapes
that lay upon my open shell.
My open hand with molten gel
spreads wide with gentle fingertips
two labia walls two lips too dried
til liquid oozing wet each side
and entered they with slathered mound
spreading ointment all around
the hallowed entrance, opened door
while heart beat off the notes by four
in pacing rhythm, sequence, heat
a largo first, andante dance
too slow at first as did Bizet
Bolero building ageless theme
crescendo rising from the ash
a soundless suite of sweetness wrung
from soundless songs in mem'ry sung
increasing, faster, presto beat
each finger playing instrument
a harp, a cello, viola string,
trombone and trumpet,
French horny thing,
and many reeds for many reads,
non-stop
the strings of violins
high pitched clarinets
coercing oboes
to cadenza of the night
the music of my own delight;
at last, the solo
takes the stage
in this interlude
where all the music stops
orchestral intermission
suspension of disbelief
collage of images flow by
fingers find that neuron mass
that stands erect upon its podium
my self conductor
an Aldo Ciccolini
piano virtuosity,
a two two time
whole rest
then minuet
a waltz time through
erectile state
fingers pressing, plucking, rubbing
gentle thrusts
each downbeat harsh staccato
upbeat terse vibrato
my clitoral choral fantasy
rushing through plush fields of play
blushing through blood fields where stay
a quartet of my solo artistry
no sweet suite, my fickle flight
my opened gap a voiceless aria
arpeggio of total scale
no note untouched
not flat nor sharp nor key
au natural
so fast a beat, so strong the will
the hummingbird's wings seem silent, still
till final coda mounts the hill
and plants the flag of victory
of this my own idolatry.
The pace is brisk, crescendo strong,
music's notes no rests for long,
once, twice, then thrice, a fourth, and more
then silence, clapping blasts, applause
awaiting more "Encore! Encore!"
and fingers played non-stop, no pause
to rest until the end that neural tip
can take no more, grows limply number
and breath grows weak and loosens grip
relaxing all en masse in slumber.
Beyond the lids, my curtain closed,
repose as my musicians leave, slowly
and all to beat of tympani
in this my self-made symphony.
The rhythm slowed adagio
as liquidly I came inside
and went as far as I could go
in this my own romantic ride
my lips now closed, await anew
my new concerto played with you.
where I can go at any time
no matter where, no matter when
returning to erotic prime
where I have more no need of men
to pluck my flowers still in bloom
that flourish in my secret room.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 568 times
Written on 2007-02-27 at 17:16
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The Secret Room Part V Finale (Revised for Encore)
The Secret Room Part VManipulating breasts erect
with nipples elongated, tall –
my fingers rolled as if a ball
exciting me, both tips as eager
as they often were
now sensuously satisfied.
Both lips surrendered to my loving tongue
an oral organ moist and stiff
pressing on each lip as if
preparing to make daring plunge
between both lips below, above,
where oft they once enjoyed the love,
the lust, the passion, languid rims
resisting nothing, there they play
a gentle fugue, conductor less.
My open eyes saw dancing shadows
flickers frolicking with the flames
which formed such fearless faceless shapes
that lay upon my open shell.
My open hand with molten gel
spreads wide with gentle fingertips
two labia walls two lips too dried
til liquid oozing wet each side
and entered they with slathered mound
spreading ointment all around
the hallowed entrance, opened door
while heart beat off the notes by four
in pacing rhythm, sequence, heat
a largo first, andante dance
too slow at first as did Bizet
Bolero building ageless theme
crescendo rising from the ash
a soundless suite of sweetness wrung
from soundless songs in mem'ry sung
increasing, faster, presto beat
each finger playing instrument
a harp, a cello, viola string,
trombone and trumpet,
French horny thing,
and many reeds for many reads,
non-stop
the strings of violins
high pitched clarinets
coercing oboes
to cadenza of the night
the music of my own delight;
at last, the solo
takes the stage
in this interlude
where all the music stops
orchestral intermission
suspension of disbelief
collage of images flow by
fingers find that neuron mass
that stands erect upon its podium
my self conductor
an Aldo Ciccolini
piano virtuosity,
a two two time
whole rest
then minuet
a waltz time through
erectile state
fingers pressing, plucking, rubbing
gentle thrusts
each downbeat harsh staccato
upbeat terse vibrato
my clitoral choral fantasy
rushing through plush fields of play
blushing through blood fields where stay
a quartet of my solo artistry
no sweet suite, my fickle flight
my opened gap a voiceless aria
arpeggio of total scale
no note untouched
not flat nor sharp nor key
au natural
so fast a beat, so strong the will
the hummingbird's wings seem silent, still
till final coda mounts the hill
and plants the flag of victory
of this my own idolatry.
The pace is brisk, crescendo strong,
music's notes no rests for long,
once, twice, then thrice, a fourth, and more
then silence, clapping blasts, applause
awaiting more "Encore! Encore!"
and fingers played non-stop, no pause
to rest until the end that neural tip
can take no more, grows limply number
and breath grows weak and loosens grip
relaxing all en masse in slumber.
Beyond the lids, my curtain closed,
repose as my musicians leave, slowly
and all to beat of tympani
in this my self-made symphony.
The rhythm slowed adagio
as liquidly I came inside
and went as far as I could go
in this my own romantic ride
my lips now closed, await anew
my new concerto played with you.
where I can go at any time
no matter where, no matter when
returning to erotic prime
where I have more no need of men
to pluck my flowers still in bloom
that flourish in my secret room.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 568 times
Written on 2007-02-27 at 17:16
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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