I have never known the difference between the measure of air in lungs or the feeling of naked grass on skin. It is long sequestered oxygen, compressed, raging, pressing into my chest, hands in my mouth, between her legs. We soar in lines of blood across the sand. She bought coffee off the street. I am risking, you dare me to go beyond. She touches herself. I watch. Voyeurism is far sexier in foreign locales. Her mouth was full of marbles, her lips tonguing glass. It feels strange. She’s come from Denmark, fields in her hair, hands smelling of tulips from her layover in Holland. Late nights, we tattooed words like “float” in spindly lines across our bodies, to remind ourselves, to resist forgetting. Little sips, little sips of pleasure, drawn into great gulps, slamming her down, pressing her further into me, forcing her closer. I want to trace those words, those permanent longings of her skin. She hails a cab outside, disappearing into the night. I bang on keys to keep her within me. She runs down the drain, out of my apartment, underground. I kiss the faucet and pray. Oslo had been white with snow the last time she lined her body. She had arrived after a late dinner, spoke rapidly in Norwegian and retreated.

Lovelies; I shall continue to use this blog for poetry, but for my found images, please visit Model Lesbians! xox


Love Songs

Love songs have long been written by men
Poems for the goddesses of their own minuscule worlds,
But love songs from one woman to another,
Such things are far more rare.
Centuries of words have been penned
In the wavering time between dusk and dawn,
In shadow less cells if ancient desire.

There is something magical about a poem
Drawn forth from female form to female form,
Erotic and tender, from the supple lips of one to another.

My love songs, they have always been written for women,
For the subtle pear of a mouth, the broken line
As shoulders dip to collar bones.
I could never begin to imagine trading
Delicate hipbones and her perfect handfuls.

I have tasted far too many sweet lips under mine,
Felt too many thin fingers bruising my back in ecstasy.
I have never witnessed such divine supplication elsewhere.

I could write volumes, the words I have,
For the way a hitch of breath, a sharp inhale, can catch me,
Pressing its inches between sternum and centre.

I have slept nights to find hands whispered
Between my gentle frame, impressing, courting my body,
Such a pleasurable prison, so clean, so perfect.

Winter smells remind me of the women I have loved.
I lay, body stretched across the cooling earth,
Sharp chill, weather perfect for sleeping.
This is the moment when I am most here, most alive;
It is not those gasping hours beneath sheets,
But rather, solitary and tranquil, waiting,
For the night the Northern Lights will appear.

Individual love songs have begun to feel contrite,
To feel wasted. Instead, I write a love poem
To a while gender, those fine women of length
And fluidity, of fine bones like maps
And mouths tasting of longing fruit.

To turn away, oh it would cause such anguish.

I sing the body electric
in ways we never imagined.
You, beneath, or above,
we breath air to cool our skin.

My soul electric,
i have always wondered
on stopping time,
in gasping moments
recording thought or in
photographic memory.

My images could never do this justice.

Here, are rumpled sheets, ash,
cigarettes, used up and worn out,
dirty dishes and filtering sunlight.

Here is broken skin and
narcissistic reactions,
teeth marks and trails left behind.

We are electric like the dawn,
endless, moving, sharp
and ethereal.

Walt Whitman preferred men,
but I prefer the taste of you.

We are. We are, broken devolving pieces, untimely torn, histrionic, seismic, revolutionary. We are your thick blood, your thorny palms. We are your infinite abyss. We are your torn shirt. We are the sound of muffled fights. We are the depth of your bones. We are your painted void, your ragged breath, the scratches on your back. Your glacial standards. We are your untold stories and broken borders. We are your shuddering soul and your wandering lust. We are your hands. We are your uncensored thought, your burning ember. We are your unmatched desires and your riotous calm. We are your addictions. We are your carnal perversions. We are your hand up skirt in bathroom light. We are your climax, your collapse. We are your worst nightmare.

my lust. my lust. my lust. my pierced soul. my wounded eagle. my final retreat. my pleasure. my indifference. my recalcitrant. my tongue lash. my swollen pride. my open wound. my ache. my rush. my provocation. my buried hatchet. my throbbing insides. my crucifixion. my tear. my deluge. my huddled mass. my pinned against the wall. my fruit. my vitals. my had from behind. my ending. my liquid fervor. my surviving days. my harlot. my bruises. my wetness. my beautiful. my gaping hole. my electric touch. my surviving death. my unbuttoned. my unbridled. my broken spirit.

my worth. my undetermined injury. my burning embrace. my fire. my redemption. my sulk. my numbered days. my neon thought. my breath. my cunt. my gaze. my plastic bruises. my gaping hole. my fixation. my shuddering feast. my sheen. my ache. my predestination. my cocaine. my rush. my clouded thought. my tender grave. my buried hatchet. my throbbing. my clutched and fucked and slapped in the face. my broken spirit. my fruit. my murdered crow. my retreat. my crucifixion. my sex. my torn tendons. my ravishment. my confined space. my dimmed light. my finish. my aggression. my soft look. my boiled light. my tattered exterior. my bleeding palms. my chance in hell.

We love in sine curves and ellipses
measuring our algorithms against Descartes
and praying for the stars to align
in some kind of celestial hypnosis.

We speak magic rhythms of tribesmen,
long before Arabic numbers and false idols existed.
I count to you in Morse Code, numbers tapped out
against the darkness of the sky.
Watch as I switch beats, breath easy
under summer vowels.

You argued for linear algebra while I drew lines in the sand.

These days were never meant for static movements,
kinetic energy pulling us along side,
neither willing to face gravity,
nor able to keep our feet on the ground.