Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    It starts with a p.
    And ends with...?
    An n.
    Pen? Pin? Pain?
    Címon, you can do better than that.

    We were not sitting,
    we were standing, facing each other one foot apart
    like two cats... maybe leopards?... ready for a fight
    tails deceptively wagging opposite directions
    voices low, smooth, drooling...
    Porn? you giggled,
    poking me in the chest.
    Hey, donít be crude, I snarled,
    though there was no reason for snarling,
    the tension cutting thick slices off my reserve.
    Sometimes I took myself too seriously.

    You pursed your lips,
    looking at me strangely
    was unseeing the right description for your look?
    No, I didnít know you knew Italian.
    I know French too. Poisson?
    Close, even very close,
    but it is not in French
    and you donít speak French.
    No? Are you sure? What about Poisson díAvril?

    It just struck me that you were pulling my leg,
    the ring in my nose
    the other end of the chain in your hand
    and I was waddling along without even being aware of it.
    I looked at you, waiting.

    Something in the substance of your eyes changed,
    from clear to turbid, from mocking to reaving,
    the layers of boiling mud
    once bubbling peacefully in the realms of innocent sleep
    now stirring, growling,
    an awakening demon in your mind raking them pitilessly off lethargyís bed
    the tridentís three prongs drawing blood
    as the storm majestically shook its mane
    thin steam crawling upwards out of your nostrils
    and saliva suddenly burning blisters at the corners of your mouth.

    Kneel!... you commanded
    my knees sinking to the floor
    your dress flying over your head
    freshly spotted panties tearing alongside a complaining seam
    just as my head entered the forbidden queendom
    and your thighs closed their vise around my neck
    ready to rip my head off
    alongside with the devastating pleasure
    forcing its way into you and searing your craving insides.

    We rolled on the floor,
    intoxicated with escaping fragrances and liquors
    my voraciousness equaled only by your bacchanal caterwauls
    famished senses straining for release
    hoping to never reach that glade where straining fingers turn fists
    and pieces of skin and flesh and hair slide underneath fingernails
    and a sun falls over us burying our bodies inside its fierce entrails.

    Passion... you bit the word into my lip
    telling me you knew all along,
    and allowing me to wipe away the ravages upon your body
    with tips of fingers
    and tip of tongue
    and tips of eyelashes.