Tag Archives: Poetry

A Poem: Between the World and Me – Richard Wright

A few weeks ago, during the height of the heartbreaking events in Ferguson, Jelani Cobb tweeted the poem below. In my younger days, I’ve been privileged to read Richard Wright’s work. I believe that Native Son is required reading on college syllabus’ in the US. However, I did not know that he was also a poet…and what a poet.

I am the victim of a haunting. Recent events have wedded themselves with this poem and it has stayed with me ever since. So perfectly does it do it’s job of taking you to the scene of a crime, injecting you, and immolating you.

I gasped with grief when I was done…as I did when I imagined the blood draining and pooling around the body of Michael Brown as his family stood near by in what must surely have been paroxyms of grief – for HOURS. Or, Trayvon Martin….Oscar Grant….Ramarley Graham….a list that keeps growing.

Just wandering along about my business only to be bludgeoned senseless with evidence of hate. On a page, from a screen, screaming at me from a headline, or the eyes of some stranger.

Hate, too, can be a coursing highway that ends in death.

Hatred, a living palpable thing, a gift that is mine from the hands of strangers who neither know, nor care, anything about me…or anyone who looks like me.

Black like me.

I close my eyes and the words disappear but they are seared in my memory. My mind plays tricks on me and invokes their imagery when yet another name is added to what has become a whispered litany.

I carry that with me and yet so many around me say this is a thing of my imagining, defying history, evidence, reason and all human feeling.

I count myself lucky that while I imagine, I have at least not been called to witness…. Or have I?


Between the World and Me
Richard Wright

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled
    suddenly upon the thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly
    oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting
    themselves between the world and me….

There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
    upon a cushion of ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt
    finger accusingly at the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and
    a scorched coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat,
    and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches,
    butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
    drained gin-flask, and a whore’s lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the
    lingering smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow
    surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull….

And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
    for the life that was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by
    icy walls of fear–
The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the
    grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods
    poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the
    darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
    into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
    my flesh.

The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
    cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red
    upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that
    my life be burned….

And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
    into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my
    black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as
    they bound me to the sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from
    me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into
    my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a
    baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot
    sides of death.
Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
    yellow surprise at the sun….






I dig this poem sooo much! Very clever, love the use of alliteration and who does this NOT resonate with? Anyone?

*You over there with your hands raised – “Please sit the hell down!” lol.

The Conversation

I see a ME without YOU and wondered if you knew
there’d be a YOU without ME and that’s the way
you really wanted it to be.

I wanted there to be a YOU with ME that would
make up a WE and see how that would feel,
but alas, that’s not a vision YOU could see.

Were “we” not in the same space and time when it was
ME you would find as your needs itched so deep only I could
give the relief YOU claimed to seek… Or was that just ME?

Was it not YOU that said, in time just another one of
your repeated lines that we could be two lovers
Who could share the same space not just smile in each
other’s face,But yearn and live for each other’s embrace.

YOU said though it would take some time I should accept that
It’s better to…

View original post 241 more words

Pirate Jenny is My Grandmother by Black Amazon

Nina Simone

I’m on Tumblr now. 🙂 Yes, I’m rapidly becoming a proud, social media addict. I enjoy it for the cool people I meet and the exposure to myriad subjects from great minds.

I’m digging the poem below, Pirate Jenny is My Grandmother by Black Amazon. It’s intelligence, unabashed veracity, power, complexity and anger resonated with me. The author is 28, which to me, gives the piece a different articulation and a too rarely expressed perspective.

It was written, amongst other things, in response to a news report being about a 12 year old girl who was beaten up by two grown women. It makes absolutely no sense to me that they are not being prosecuted for hate crimes since the video clearly substantiates that charge.


But I read the news about women’s rights / health struggles and go “Good”

Because a 12 year old girl can catch a broken limb beating from TWO thirty year olds

that ” activism” of the past what 100+ years hasn’t changed any of that

And with FEW exceptions folks don’t care

Because a 12 year old girl can catch a broken limb beating from TWO thirty year olds

and no one gets arrested till it makes the Internet.

But folks think we’re too angry

It’s no one’s fault.

She “get’s her arm broken”

You see these things just “happen” to girls of color

Nobody means it so no one should be held accountable

It’s a nebulous society and forces of which no one is complicit, no one is culpable

Until a 12 year old gets used to being called nigger and “only” breaks her arm.

And if no one is doing it to us?

Then we must be doing it to ourselves…

Read full poem here

**Artwork: Art Imitating Life: Rabbit by Citruquinz. Visit site**

Still I Rise: Maya Angelou

Maya Performing

I love Maya Angelou. She is the word made perfect. I never fail to be moved by this poem. It reminds me from whence I came and the limitless breadth of possibilities that is mine but for the asking…

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
 You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
 Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
 Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
 You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Nature’s Fufillment

Daydreaming of Acer Griseum,
It’s muscular arms outlined
by the sparkling frost of winter snows.

Eyes feasting on the leafy orchestration of burnt orange, sienna, ruby, persimmon, chocolates and magenta.

Jumping in piles of crispy leaves
as slumbering plants look on with envy.

Lost in a love
which overtakes me
every Fall,
as I survey the startling contrast
of Hemlocks,
clothed in robes of gold, burnt umber and smoky charcoal.

Pining for Quercifolia,
aging with grace and beauty
to dusky pinks, ancient whites and warm, earthen hues.

Mourning for Rosa, Lilac and Paeonia,
their scents,
their smiles,
and endless variation
of rainbow finery.

Icy rivers wend their way
through my dreams,
icicles reflecting the slumbering
recollection of burgeoning Spring.

Haunted by visions
of evocative beauties,
fleeting though they are,
serve to satisfy memory,
melding promise and desire,
stoking dreams
with perennial fire.

Love Lies Bleeding

Speak not to me

of love

for it crowds out reason,

madness reigned supreme,

for endless seasons.


Speak not to me

of rage,

infamous, second cousin

to love’s name.

By extension,

I’ve savored

her acquaintance.

Speak not to me

of pain,

the legacy of love

gone awry.

Speak not to me

of shame,

which has sullied and blackened,

silken sheets.

Acidity courses,


eating avidly

through streams of my consciousness.

Speak not to me

of patience,

I have none left to give.

Speak to me

of sweet freedom,

of endless flight,

and quenchless hunger.

Speak to me

of fire,

of gilded light,

of virgin doors,


ever beckoning…

Speak to me

of discovery and wonder.

Speak to me

of epiphanies,


whispered whimsies,

for my soul demands it.

Speak to me

of synergy,

unfettered by,

unfettered by,

unfettered by,

my wordless,

drawn out,

guttural cries

of disjointedness, discordance

and disappointment.

Speak to me

of hope and possibility.

Yes, possibility.

Mines to claim

as long as I draw breath.

Assure me

that they wait

– still –

outside my door.

Am I

not yet forsaken?

Branded by missteps,

wrong turns,

tattered, misplaced trust

and forlorn beliefs?

Or may I

start anew again?

Say there are

rainbows left for me.


yes hope,

mines to seek,

flawed though I am.

Burgeoning joys,


awaiting the silkiness

of my questing touch.

That I am,



and forgiven.

An unwilling witness

to Love




Cognitive Dissonance


I sit by the phone,

surrounded by sibilant whispers

of stormy skies.


The fluidity of movement

brings your beauty to mind.


Nighttime whispers

of yearning so deep

descend upon me

with stealthy sweetness.


This yearning has mass,

swollen with want,

testimony to tenderness

and the lingering melody

of my touch.


I know from past experience

that it dissipates

only in the showers of love

which rain down in your presence.


I touch my lips to the pane

and shadows of rivulets

create etched patterns

on my careworn face.


Breathtaking minutes

dance past,

while I transform their

fingers into yours,

wending their way

down the arch of my back.


I arch into you,

closer to honeyed warmth

and the sweet syrupy goodness

that awards me for my patience.


“Take me”

a whisper that is all

the encouragement I need.


As hands assail clothes

and gentle thrusts turn

to the hard insistence

of love tinged madness.


I grasp this,

our ethereal alchemy,

in the absence of something more concrete.


I hear a rip

and discover your bra

hanging forlorn from my teeth.


Your moans enclose me

– wanton.


I kneel to you

in submission of what you make me feel.


My arms can’t hold this much bliss.


I drink to satiation,

temporary as it is,

all curves and lips,

hips and finger tips,


and a chorus of cries

that urge me to

the precipice

– stranded on a cliff.


The cliff of your absence.


Our love is

all angles and curves,

as you recede in the distance

becoming cognitive dissonance…

Objects In The Mirror

A new poem from my murky mind. Not chipper today, no siree Bob. But tomorrow, thank God, is another day. It’s interactive, click on the links! 🙂




when I have money again,

I will go to Butter in New York

and wander gilded streets after dark,

drunk on the libation of happiness.


when my load is lighter,

I will dance down the Champs Elysees

destined as I am for Triumph.

My fighter spirit deserves no less.


when the tides change,

I will descend upon my favorite store,

Lord & Taylor,

and run my hands along the furry, silky,

brightly colored fabrics with their false promises of joy.

I will buy nothing just because I can.


when something finally gives,

I will visit the Sistine Chapel

to marvel at the genius of Michaelangelo

and slap the hand of God.


I plan to sit on Aruban sands

beneath the sheltering, contorted arms

of a Divi Divi Tree

and watch the wind fan endlessly

through the pages of a book

written by Me.

Rewarded for my perseverance.


God willing,

I will keep my promise to take my Mom to Africa

It will be her first time flying through the clouds

and touching down in another hemisphere.

Because she gave me the gift of life,

I would give her the world.

And maybe,

when the time is right,

I will make my way to Andalusia

to see the Lipizzaner running free.

But not today.


I must keep my head down

and my back straight

for fear that if I bend

I will break.


hoping and dreaming,

that objects in the mirror

are closer than they appear….

Without Guise

I don’t know. It’s a strange little poem and she will not behave. She changes cadence, discards alliteration, embraces rhyme and then rejects it. She spills over stanzas and pushes at the boundary of my imagination even as she beckons me onwards. Like the protective parent of a wayward child, I see her promise and love her anyway. Enjoy 🙂  ________________________________________________________________________________________

I want to feel the gentle insistence of your lips,

moist, damp,

swollen and seductive.

Get lost in the sweetness of your breath,

engorging me,

sighing deliriously

in my ear,

against my thighs,

emitting happiness.

Crave the wondrous sensation

of your caress,

sliding, gliding, outlining.

from my cheeks to my neck.

Over my shoulders,

down the curved highway of my back,

glorifying gluteus

and the treasure of unclaimed caverns.

Seized in passion.

Butterfly touches.

Lazy, languorous licks.

Tweaks and tickles.

Our feast of tactile madness.

I am totally caught up in

the shelter of your arms

and the me

who reigns supreme

in the mirror of your eyes.

When you touch me

with your mind,

our thoughts,



Your touch transcends lust.

It resonates with inquisitiveness

as you marvel at the uniqueness of our forms

and the pulsating silence of that which cannot be touched.

Or can it?

You reside in every sunbeam,

live in the delicious ripples of water,

roar in the majesty of the nighttime skies.

My love for you is limitless,

also known as infinite.

It is woven into the very weft of my existence –

Without guise.

It’s a wrap! Cocorivers.com goes live

So, I’ve been slacking a bit on the blog front. Sorry! I have been spending a great deal of time Tweeting and emerging myself in causes. Keeping up with Occupy Wall Street is a full time job but a labor of love. The end of the gardening season *sob* is at hand and I am in a shopping frenzy for my clients. There really is nothing better than shopping with someone else’s money!

Somehow, I’ve also managed to get my Erotica website ready for primetime. For those of you that appreciate Eros, check me out at www.cocorivers.com. I aim to make it as diverse as what’s here with an emphasis on adult content. If sex is not your thing lol, I will not be offended. 😉

Tomorrow, we return to our regular scheduled programming and will turn our pen to OWN’s Miss Representation (aka The Ills of Feminism).


A monument of pain stands between us.

It went up stealthily,

brick by impervious brick.


My silence,

rich with the strength of complicity

and self righteousness, 

became the mortar that holds us in place.


No one is as surprised as me,

to watch our selves

spin heedlessly towards destruction.


In the face of carelessness,

I set about the bloody task

of tending to wounded spirits and broken hearts.


I implore you for a little care

but my words echo back emptily

as all frequencies are blocked

by the white noise of indifference.


I chance upon our words,

lying languidly ‘cross overstuffed chairs,

entangled in sweat drenched covers,

or trip over them, 

discarded and forlorn,

on treads well worn, leading nowhere.



A word that evokes respect of ancient ways.






In olden days,

worship was my middle name.

and I moved the earth 

with my seasons of change.



I am enslaved,

to clean your house,

bear your children 

and safeguard your heart.



I go about my tasks

but am distracted by the cries

of the small, shackled Spirit

whose promise was subsumed beneath

the weight of her responsibilities.


This then is what’s required

 to make you feel more

 Alive and functioning.


While I die,

choking on my silence,

– Punctured…

Digital Passion – Spoken Word

Click here for Audio: Digital Passion


Excitement so palpable and tangible

that it has weight.

Thought become word.

Word become deed.

Deeds driven by needs…

You say you can feel my excitement,

what else can you feel?

Can you feel my desire for you?

Infused into each staccato keystroke.

Lingering and longing caresses

as my digits

brush the sterile neutrality of my keyboard.

Keys…to Me.

The keys should be

a deep ochre,

veined with ruby

to mirror the passion

that is concealed

within the convolutions of my words.

They should do my unconscious bidding

and send this feeling

through the miles of cable

and circuitry

– Connecting Me to You.

So that as you read my letters

your every stroke

allows you to receive my libidinous desires.

Unconscious of my intention,

your eager eyes fall rapt upon the screen

which is filled with bits of me.

And just as I wished,

but cannot see,

your softening lips

fall open

at the thought

of you


to Me…

The Ocean’s Floor…

From the first tiny droplet….

 which blossoms

 into the musical twinkling of a waterfall.


A sweet murmuring that becomes

 the gently urgent sound

 of water flowing over rocks.


Rainbows caught in their mirrored perfection


Hear that sound?



First familiar,

            then strange

and ever changing.


Like the sound

of the wind

in the trees.




 the symphonic harmony

 of words…


Our words.



 like the joining paths of two rivers

 At this juncture…


Your cadence,

             and timbre,

 ringing delightfully       

            in my ears

 and swirling through my cranium.


Sometimes yet

 striking the core of my heart.


Time goes…

             and all we know

 is it’s unceasing pace.

Never anticipating,

 while pontificating.

Only knowing

            how sweet

and sexy

or deep

            and raw with laughter

the flow can become…

And come.


          Moving onwards

  to disperse yet again.


Always hoping to move upwards

like waves

from the Ocean’s floor…


Sugar coated kisses,

reeking of wine and misses,

Sing my Soul to Sleep.

Nighttime comes,

and I pray for release.

Just a little – Peace.


cloaking words,

stroke my doubts until

the art of erasure is all I know.

The feel of your arms,

around me,

leave me

all aglow.

A temporary lull

that dissipates like falling snow.

And in it’s place

a band of discontent

that binds my Heart like steel.

Stealing my Joy.

Forgotten what is Real.

I would go now,

but to where would I go?

All I now know

is the dissonant echoes

that have replaced my Essence

with turmoil.

A sluggish oil,

that seeps into every interior crack

leaving me polluted and soiled.

When I reach for you,

for what was,

all is emptiness and ghastly black stars.


Falls from your lips,

till all I hear is the puffs of air leaving

your mouth,

entering my ear,

Bisecting the sphere

of what was once

– Love…

Le Gateau Erotique – The Erotic Cake

I love French. Love, love, love French. I have been taking it since I was 12 years old and actually made it to Level 3 in College. I’ve also taken Italian and some day hope to take Latin. I was told that I have an intuitive grasp of languages, romance (are you surprised?) in particular, but alas I lacked discipline as I was seduced by the written.

I watched La Dolce Vita  last week and was reminded of how I love the sound of language as well. It is aurally seductive and makes me weak in the knees. Ssssh! It’s a secret.

I will also confess that I was married to a baker and that the inspiration of this poem came from The Erotic Baker of NYC whom I took a shine to long ago. Sex and food are on my top ten list. What’s not to love? 😉

The Erotic Cake

Like a cake,

you generate me

from the love laden bowl of imagination.

Make me and unmake me.

You lathe me with your tongue

and slaver creamy, shiny ganache over my limbs

engraved with your baker’s knife.


You suckle at the blueberries which crown my breast

savoring each curve,

decorated with imperfect hues

Until ripe and juicy –

I burst free.

Gushing purple, midnight passion

across the surface of the Earth.


Your hands create me,

a new conglomeration of chocolate lips,

spheric egg whites and my heart’s flour.

Whipped and beaten

until airy batter appears

undulating on it’s own – happy accord.


Your hands mold me

into precise, round,

perfect 12” layers.


I become

dense, creamy,

fragrant and sated.


Between my layers,

when I am perfection

upon a plate,

spread eagle and shivering.

I am laid wide

like the ocean

for all to see and feel,

taste and hear.

My silent cries


newborn cacaphonies.

You cut out a piece of my soul

and for your pleasure

swallow it whole.

Filling my emptiness 

with Grand Marnier

and setting my soul,

in all it’s dimensions,



Le Gateau Erotique

Comme un gateau, fais d’une pate

dans une vase remplie d’imagination.

Tu me refais avec ta langue mouillee.

Tu fais et refais de mon corps

comme une moule portant l’empreinte

de ton couteau de boulangerie.

Tu suce le contour de mon sein comme s’il y en a des fraise

juteuses qui l’entourent completement.

Je fais jaillir librement tout
en-dessus de la terre,

la passion solennelle de minuit.

De tes mains tu me confectionnes

des levres nouvelles faits de

avec de la melange proportionnee des

et de la farine venant de mon coeur.

Tes mains m’ont arrange avec precision.

Je suis ronde d’une parfaite
circonference de 12″

et Je suis redondante, succulente,

et d’une odeur captivante.

Quand Je suis prete

et me couchee dans une assiette,

Je me suis elargie comme une aigle,

comme de la mer pour tout le monde

de me voir et me sentir.

Pour toi d’y prendre du gout

et d’entendre mes cris enfantins.

Tu prends un morceau de mon ame

et pour ton plaisir t’as avale en remplissant

mon vide avec du “Grand Marnier”

et satisfait mone ame entre toutes ses dimensions.

Intrepid Sinner

From labyrinths,

light and

I lay my eyes

upon the sky.

I sense a heat,

immense and

am pelted by rains of fear,

while radiant rainbows

writhe hypnotically

around my head.

Nameless emotions

turn to icy tears,

plop unheeded,

scoring skin

with an infinitesimal weight

that only souls can feel.

I ruminate and ponder,

afraid of motion,

ignorant of fate.

Bound and helpless,

to await inevitability

with the blind eagerness

of newborn babes.

I lie my lips

upon your heartbeat,

seduced anew

by the beauty of its rhythm.

A willing prisoner

enwreathed in fragments

of broken dreams

which ever beckon.



fused to Love,

I come to know

of my demise.

An intrepid sinner

poised to greet

the final surprise.


A House of Spirals – Poetic

In my house there are Spirals….

Spirals adorn the walls

and wrap themselves


around the place where I lay my head

 – a gyrating sea of shifting pastels.


Spirals cast in metal

          and carved into wood.

Imprinted upon unsuspecting candles

whose voices cast pools of lambent light.


representing the conundrum

that is Spiritual life.


There –

Are aching tendrils of sadness

Tied to flashes of heavenly joy.

Crystalline strands of passion

bound up with guilt and remorse.


Ocher, maroon and magenta

metal limbs

born of struggle and loss.


There –

embedded in the table

are the filaments of my short-lived madness.


Regrets meander on the cushions,

          sewn into the flora,

                   so that only I may see them

                           and understand their poignant bleedings.


Laughter cocooned within,

burst forth

festooning my curtains with multitudinous strings

                   that ripple – still – with heart felt gladness.


Between, betwixt and bothered.

          I gaze at their glorious pattern

and drink in the reality of their presence.


Yet, in the space that lies

between their cold, rigid arms

          I see the unseeable evidence of my life

                               and all Lives

           based more in fantasy,

than the harsh, harried steps

which make up so much of reality,

mythical, unfettered, musical and true.

In your House there are Spirals too…

When Love Is Born – Poetic

Dancing eyes,

sweep down

the gorgeous curve

of your neck,

and caress you optically

as they work their way

back up

to the twin seats of your soul.






My vocabulary

dries up


as the articulation of your being

encompasses all my senses.






I stroke you with my mind,

as you always seem just out of reach.


My fall is sudden,


and peerless.


I catch my breath

treading oceans,

lost within velvet chasms.


I am the Gordian knot,

wound in a ball of contradiction.






If only this were my reality,

I would lie happily

in blissful slumber.

Your name

the softest whisper  

of sweet, forgotten consciousness,

expelled upon the breath of my love.


Not today.



I am left splintered,



tremors roiling

through my dermis.


Our joining,

the mile marker

of conjoined creation.


Your hand,

conscious and unconscious,

of it’s devastating effects,

seizes my nape

and trails gently down my blades,

leaving goosebumps

blooming in their wake.

Our breath,

mirrors of desire,

suddenly short.


Our lips,

vibrating slightly,



Perchance to meet,

perchance to moan,

perchance to dream

of the day when love is born…

Sum and Sun – Poetic

Cum kiss my lips.

Cum bathe my thighs.


Cum to me,

dressed only in

the shades of your desire.


Cum all over my face,

because I can wear you that way.


Cum making sensation,

libidinous waves.


Cum copious.

Cum glorious,


– nature’s opiate.


Cum to heaven’s gate

where undulating octaves

and starry stratospheres await.


Cum bring me your sweetness,

 your need

and limitless freakiness.





glistening and relished.


Cum drink

the elixir of my life essence.


Cum with me

– a passionate exchange.


Cum on me

– a dissolution of pain.


Cum dripping from my lips,

and seeping into my interior.

A shifting present,

eradicating the past.


Cum for me,

hear that?

It’s Me,

I’m coming so fast.



your cum,

burning my orifices

and filling the fathomless deep of

– what else? –

my need.


Cum for you,

I am saturated with greed.


Cum oh cum,



right side up

or upside down.



my cum,

until  I’m sore.

You know you always want more.



a natural manifestation,

become the glad orchestration

– the Sum and Sun

of our erotic combination.



please come,

inside me,

astride me,

ride me,

hard and deliriously deep.



the wet of it,

the taste of it,

the want of it,

and the sound of you

taking me in.



sending ripples of ecstasy

through my limbs and your mind.


Cum Baby Cum,

so sublime

– the closest we get to divine.





for you,

can’t seem to help it,

cumming all the time

– where else? –

but in my mind…

Voice – A Poem

It’s often as not

what you say,

or sometimes

just the way

you say what you say,

that arrow-like

zings through Me.

Striking the wall

of my resistance




an aromatic,





and pervading

all my sensory dimensions….


Your intonation

and the timbre of sounds

that escape from your throat

beguile Me so.



like I listen.


your lips move

and Seeing

the purity of white gleaming.


the seen,

not seen,

swell of  innocent baby pinkness

which undulates

as You form

letters and syllables,

vowels and consonants.

which translates into an elixir

that satisfies

yet further inflames my thirst.


Views shift.

Mental drifts.

As I attempt

to assess

the ideas and fancies

you so wish to convey

and I find myself

riveted on your grin.


Your grin.

A rapier,


crescent moon

which slices to the core of Me.


More of Me attuned than this

I can not see…