Monday, November 27, 2006

Amnesiac Skin

by f-cynyr ©

Lacking the memory and print
of hands,
your body moves through
junctures of unrequited
and moments of musk
meant to cloy and snare.

Your scented skin,
amnesiac blank,
devoid of the crimson
glow of lust,
struggles to recall anxious
fingers fondling
wistful thighs
and swollen lips that
mumble surrender.

Your heaving breasts
yearn for the scorching
ghosts of firm hands
that grasp and slide,
conjuring phantom
lips that sip and suckle.

Lost in your fabrication,
wisps of hands still hold
and caress your body,
apparitions that devour
and consume your
trembling hunger.

Ghostly hands, grasping
air in bony curling fingers,
trap false memory, each
spectral tremor of
arousal, thin and transparent,
a haunted lust, relived,
and thrashed through

Your eyes, and body without
imprint or recollection
of musk moments,
moves through unrequited
and is left abandoned to
apparitions that leave
transparent prints on your
amnesiac skin

Saturday, November 11, 2006

The Mouth of Your Body

by f-cynyr ©

The mouth of your body
chants the spell of your
allure that charms the
secrets of my name.
Your inflamed lips
roll me around and
savor the sorcery
of my swollen phallus.

Your aching hips
mouth their passions
and name the elements
that are my hands and
squeezing fingers.
Your suckling breasts
swell and throb with
the tides of fertility as
you fall enchanted under
my clasping and probing,
that sends you gasping
the secrets of my name
again and again.

Your thighs sing the hymn
of renewal for me as their
center twitches and rocks,
rubbing crackling air to ease
the bone hunger of their
drooling lips.
The mouth of your thighs
yawns and stretches, begging
to swallow my rising rigidity.

The mouth that you are,
sings and calls my secret
name that your body weaves
as spells to draw me into
the devouring witchery of your
lust, as old as the hunger of tides
and the moons of your passion.

The fertility of your
craving sings the binding
magic that enthralls my flesh
and drives our primal bodies
to dance the seeding
that is as as ancient as
the elements and as old
as the stone phallus
erected at the first lunar tide.

Your body sings its
submission to me, leaking
the tug of tides and fertility
until in the final heave
and release, creation flames
from the woven spells and magic
of our lusting bodies.