I love watching the smoke plume from your lips,
it rises in the air, as my hands gravitate toward your hips-
it is nightfall and we are the lunar eclipse,
our kisses become a one-way rocketship.
Slender and significant, magnetic and magnificent-
so intertwined, our shadows share a holy commitment.
Dulcet tones and hand-pressed tailbones,
there is no pleasure comparable to this when we are alone.
An act historic yet a union so freshly euphoric,
painters and poets choose wisely with their hands,
plume smoke from your lips-
and we shall see where their fingertips land.
It’s the cokehead collective and the inked up side-chicks,
all destined to be where they are, no doubt about it.
The banter brewery has never sold so much stock,
flogging feathers to every chicken head who wants to be the cock of the walk.
It’s good to have money, but your friends’ money is nicer,
prowling between tables, you white nosed tiger-
can’t tell if you’re my friend or a good liar,
can’t tell if you’re my friend or just the supplier.
The sailors, in chuck taylors,
it’s all the same shit-
just different flavours.
Nothing bends a bond like distance and time,
nothing solidifies a bond like drugs and wine,
nothing is a bond if money controls the supply line.
Dearest, sweetest, oh the loveliest-
the lack of pen; it is not a tale of a love subdued
waiting for the scholars to still define you.
Your frame, the way your words seem to glide-
through my ears, icing my soul and persuading my heart not to die.
There is no other to the feeling of your fingertips dancing on my spine;
I think of no worry, I think of no darkness – hell, there is no time.
The lighthouse, the candle, the sun, the torch, the glow-
how you encompass all this, a mystery a heart will never know.
There is no sweeter thing that the just because,
a love that begs no reason,
a love that abides by no days or time,
our love is just because-
no orchestration in a love sublime.