. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Thursday, October 10, 2013

The Slick Trails

She slips like loose heat through his torrid memories
Cradling his sad existence in her outstretched arms
Pulls him in against her burning flesh
To search
     out the sound of her heart in the bellows behind her breasts
A stiff nipple in his ear like the doctor’s stethoscope
With an emerald ring
     against his jawline she fingers the tight chords of his
Where the blood boils in a mad haste to keep him alive
Tunneling through spent muscles to provide the strength he needs
     to push against her
To lift her by
     that fragile rib cage which guards delicately her lungs
Her hidden voice in those nebulous caverns
Like soft lips pressed to satin to subjugate her shrieks
Moaning trumpets in the dim light
Crawling along the avenues of his contorted spine
She climbs the nooks and crannies of his body
Counting the endless drops of his sweat
Until the
     numbers are like stars and
          there is no way to tell anymore
               which beads come by perspiration
or by the morning dew
or by tears
or by the slick trails left by her tongue



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