Mark-ed

Damp curls of dis-satisfaction brush across my forehead
An itch that inches under my skin
Bristling, persistent, it's hard to scratch.
Then I catch a softness in your eyes,
A half-light falling across the quiet melody of your skin,
And I forget the questions that cool sardonic silence
Asks me outside the cloister of moist kisses.

Winter's fingers strum the night's complacencies
As we lie dreaming of endless Summer,
Rain drumming on the in-breath...
Then, Sun soaked dew, remembering the soft grey morning mist...
(I feel it play against my skin, light velvet touch of new-born days...)
Calls forth a song from parting lips,
Unfurling buds, like tiny rainbows,
Burst quietly from beneath an evening's shadows.

l'amour, it graces me moving through me out to you. merci. it's kind of irish.

My passion disturbs you sometimes.

"je t'aime", i said.

"C'est ton droit..." I didn't hear you. A lust for life blurred with the music, the buzz of the people around us, flowed out hot lava from a volcano shining out through the space of my eyes.

"What did you say? Je n'ai pas entendu"

"C'est ton droit,"

I laughed. This made me laugh. This love, it is my right, i was, i am, free to love.

"Oui, je sais," j'ai dit. This too made me laugh.

Here too i laugh. And cry just a little.

How do you feel when you surf? For me, it is like the surf is within me, rolling and crashing into the shore beyond me. I felt like a child, bewitched by everything...

imagination painting pictures

i pull on my socks and your breath is warm on my neck, your kiss tender and warm steeping love into my cells so that when i breathe it condenses with the crisp air and hovers there before dispersing into the sky and settling soft and clean onto the skin of strangers...

absence paints pictures

I like big afros. Tight butts and big afros are just about the coolest combination. Something about those frizzy little curls and succulent round buttocks . . . simply love them . . . male, female, it's an aesthetic thing.

Sitting outside Goldsmith's Cafe, the world driving by, rumbling, clanking, whistles softly murmur and a beautiful sun weaves into my jumper making me slightly too warm but everything is bathed golden and hazy and, oh, so sensual . . .

Earlier I slip through the streets like butter, softly melting into my footsteps. A beautiful black man with natty little dreads plays football with his son. I watch them, walking slowly, eyes following the glittering red ball that sparkles as it bounces from foot to foot. The beautiful man smiles across at me and invites me to join them... I wonder.. but I grin back - "no, thanks man" and continue walking. A missed adventure perhaps but the sun lazies me and I prefer to look from the outside in.

I've been posing, naked, an artist directing me for his pencil to trace my outlines. As I lay there I thought of you, your hands stroking round my curves, drawing me into my mind's eye. Little wisps of smoke puffed up from a wood-burner like small coughs and its smell wrapped me in Autumn, sketching me into silk mornings of crisp dew light and musky duvets.