It is in
I cast a spell
one of darkness
delicious, decadent desire
that will lick up
thought you had
and bury them
in folds of my devil
milk your fuel
and guttural screams
more than once
Welcome to After Hours friends. Beth Amanda back for a Friday night post. This is obviously from my archives. I had been writing less than a year on Twitter when this was posted there. Sometimes it’s fun to look back, and most times, I’m asking myself “Did I write that?” When new doesn’t flow off the pen like it should, going back can be a great trip. Enjoy the evening readers!
of my aching flesh
adore each inch
with your eager eyes
feel me closer
with every fingertip
sliding over curves
journeying deep within
taste all my scents
my delicacies of femininity
with your lips and velvet tongue
devour my essence
did all the talking
tickling my neck
running across breasts
down slender sides
and sensitive hipbones
began pure poetry
words sliding effortlessly
down insides of
weaving passionate lines
over and around
a changing tone
with flip of my body
of rough language
kneading both cheeks
urgent voices in his fingers
as he pulled me
to my knees
his conversation with me
and my screams of
finally silencing him
I am kind of giggling that I could write about a coffee mug. But thanks to Christine Ray, a line in her poem “A Poet’s Love Song”inspired this piece, and I just had to run with it!
I stared at the chip in my favorite teal colored coffee mug. The mug with the typewriter font B on it for Beth. The chip happened not long after I bought it, and I don’t know how.
I felt like I was staring at my life.
Like the mug, my life is a beautiful color. Although, it is not always the same color because different days and experiences bring different colors.
Like the mug, my life is daily filled with things I love. Family, good friends, good times, thoughts and dreams. Oh yes, and coffee and wine.
Like the mug, my life constantly gets refilled. Mainly, it’s the people in my life who unknowingly do that for me.
Like the mug, I sometimes spice up my life by adding in things others’ may never think of doing. And I savor those moments of secret indulgence.
Like the mug, my life is not perfect. I never know when a chip will happen. I don’t always know how it happens. But my life has bumps and scuffs, and those oftentimes leave scars that are permanent yet not debilitating.
Like the mug, chips won’t keep my life from being able to be full and happy. Hurt, heartache, and loss happen. But I continue on and sometimes ignore those chips.
My mug. My life.
One thing I missed last week was Back Cataloging, well, it wasn’t missed as much as it wasn’t reflected in my posts. I have spent a good deal of time over the last several weeks reading Midwest Fantasy. If you take the time to browse through her posts pinned below, she will invite the reader into her world with very sensual and modestly erotic writing that expresses a depth of a sensuality connecting to a deeper spirituality of self-discovery. She affirms wonderful, sex-positive idea of Woman. While the legs in the icon at the top of the page may seduce the reader, getting insight into the depths of this interesting and very decent human will be the reward.
I welcome her to the Go Dog Go Treetop Cafe.
Spinning Naked Singing
Wrapped inside this lace prison, beauty
Tied to the post barks at the convention of standards
She turns to the mirror, gagged, looking for a safe word
Unable to spit it out.
Who is prisoner, who is warden?
Wrapped inside this lace prison strips beauty
Of depth. In the fathoms, sharks swim with barracudas
She turns to the mirror, looking for an oxygen tank,
A rifle to shoot at the gag.
Who is hunter, who is hunted?
Wrapped inside this lace prison, beauty asks, naked,
Why don’t you untie me, stare at gently falling flesh
In the mirror, laugh, then smile at the unravelling
Spit out unsafe words until the tank explodes
Who is safe, who is safe?
Lace lumped on the floor, the mirror looks back
At beauty dancing, spinning, whirly-dirvishing
Singing words that explode, spitting them out
Like poison sucked from a rattlesnake bite.
Please explore more, just a few favorites:
In this naked heat
all sense of me
two smoldering fires
ablaze as one
it is no longer
you and me
it is the naked heat