domingo, 24 de agosto de 2008

Hands on

As I feel your body approaching
The head vertiginously spinning
My ears buzzing
The nostrils expand and I feel the smell of lust
Put your hands on the table

My arms get heavy and, paralyzed, they tilt
My fingers throb.
As I touch your flesh, I hear it crackle
It burns, it stiffens. At my command.
Put your hands on the table

I clench my fingers and they feel like embracing Desire itself
I bite your lobe and my tongue is traveling around it and beyond.
When the hairs of your forearm gently touch and intertwine with mine
You realize my presence. Too late.
Put your hands on the table

I get to know what you are, wholly, I have a hundred hands,
But more importantly, you are sure of it and fear not.
All impediments turn to dust.
I strip off all the morals and inhibitions, I crystallize the moment.
I tame my shame and not the other way around.
I am a hopeless slave to your handsomeness. But what a disguise!
Neither your body nor mine can contain it. I boil, you burst.
Put your hands on the table

I disalienate, I see and show. The self merges for an instant.
We fight, we see death and grin. I dive in after you.
But elude yourself not . I lead the dance.
Put your hands on the table and leave them there

4 comentários:

  1. Wow! Of course I won't dare to elude myself. Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me. I am so really praised to belong to you, mon mignon, that I cannot resist to your provoking manners and to this beautiful text. You have an inestimable value and beauty. Kisses on your heart.

  2. Wow!!!
    Someone is boiling hot here.
    I wonder if it is from passion, desire or true love....
    I bet you anything is true love.
    we live in a beautiful world!!!
    marvellous words kid.

  3. My darling,

    It has indeed struck me as a surprise your newly found voice. You claim Marcuse is your single inspiration, but do permit me to show a different perspective. Thy pleasure comes form the metaphysics indeed. Take a look:

    Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said
    To have? is that inchanting force decai'd?
    Verse that drawes Natures workes, from Natures law,
    Thee, her best worke, to her worke cannot draw.
    Have my teares quench'd my old Poetique fire;
    Why quench'd they not as well, that of desire?
    Thoughts, my mindes creatures, often are with thee,
    But I, their maker, want their libertie.
    Onely thine image, in my heart, doth sit,
    But that is waxe, and fires environ it.
    My fires have driven, thine have drawne it hence;
    And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Sense.
    Dwells with me still mine irksome Memory,
    Which, both to keepe, and lose, grieves equally.
    That tells me'how faire thou art: Thou art so faire,
    As, gods, when gods to thee I doe compare,
    Are grac'd thereby; And to make blinde men see,
    What things gods are, I say they'are like to thee.
    For, if we justly call each silly man
    A litle world, What shall we call thee then?
    Thou art not soft, and cleare, and strait, and faire,
    As Down, as Stars, Cedars, and Lillies are,
    But thy right hand, and cheek, and eye, only
    Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye.
    Such was my Phao awhile, but shall be never,
    As thou, wast, art, and, oh, maist be ever.
    Here lovers sweare in their Idolatrie,
    That I am such; but Griefe discolors me.
    And yet I grieve the lesse, lest Griefe remove
    My beauty, and make me'unworthy of thy love.
    Plaies some soft boy with thee, oh there wants yet
    A mutuall feeling which should sweeten it.
    His chinne, a thorny hairy unevennesse
    Doth threaten, and some daily change possesse.
    Thy body is a naturall Paradise,
    In whose selfe, unmanur'd, all pleasure lies,
    Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou then
    Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man?
    Men leave behind them that which their sin showes,
    And are as theeves trac'd, which rob when it snows.
    But of our dallyance no more signes there are,
    Than fishes leave in streames, or Birds in aire.
    And betweene us all sweetnesse may be had;
    All, all that Nature yields, or Art can adde.
    My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,
    But so, as thine from one another doe;
    And, oh, no more; the likenesse being such,
    Why should they not alike in all parts touch?
    Hand to strange hand, lippe to lippe none denies;
    Why should they brest to brest, or thighs to thighs?
    Likenesse begets such strange selfe flatterie,
    That touching my selfe, all seemes done to thee.
    My selfe I embrace, and mine owne hands I kisse,
    And amorously thanke my selfe for this.
    Me, in my glasse, I call thee; But alas,
    When I would kisse, teares dimme mine eyes, and glasse.
    O cure this loving madnesse, and restore
    Me to mee; thee, my halfe, my all, my more.
    So may thy cheekes red outweare scarlet dye,
    And their white, whitenesse of the Galaxy,
    So may thy mighty, amazing beauty move
    Envy'in all women, and in all men, love,
    And so be change, and sicknesse, farre from thee,
    As thou by comming neere, keep'st them from me.

    Hope you have enjoyed for I see much of you in him.

    Kisses, kisses


  4. Dear friend...
    That was a nice text, indeed.
    Kinda a live fast, die young stuff...if you know what i mean.
    This carpe diem I noticed in this particular text is nothing but amasing.
    I really appreciated it.