The Art of Seduction

In the dark,

to be aroused slowly by soft hands,

caressing lips on curves

delicate,

like fornicating streams.

I slept in nothing

but black lace underwear

with golden butterflies

staggering and waltzing round,

embroidered on my arithmetic,

late last night

which I never do,

usually trusting not even my

lonely howl of a room enough

not to take advantage,

but the sweat did drip down heavy,

panting precisely,

ticking clocks towards

4am in these sensory days,

so I fell back to raptured

nakedness,

almost,

bare skin on soft fleece,

supple pillows

brush against nipples,

tender creative showered down

by bedframes,

more so than

human spiders that spat

their egos out,

crashing dishes down

on my bleeding head

with angered words and violence.

I betrayed the coffin rites and undertaker professions,

death would not take us tonight to fields of poppies,

hell bent razors,

night suicides,

bruised hips,

hating ourselves for stretch marks or bad posture,

cough syrup overdoses,

throwing up liquor and excuses,

lies and apathy,

hatred of the things you cannot understand,

beatings and rapes in the streets

that no one seemed to see,

no. not today, my dear.

Instead I winked at her from across a crowded bar,

her blazing fire hair,

eyeliner drenched euphoria,

tight lips until she smiled and

glowed from deep underneath

like trees sensing the spring.

I slowed time down with a wicked whisper

to the north star and sunset horizons,

craving moments to unearth her magic from within,

kisses on the mouth

that led to her knees

buckling,

moans oozing

out of her thirsty throat periphery,

legs quivering in high heals,

fists beating out the passion

on the walls of all the diners across heartbreak america,

coffee shops in Brooklyn,
movie theatres with sticky floors,

in the back seats of cars,

down dank drafty alley ways,

between lines of prose and erectile dysfunctions,

my hands between her thighs,

counting her days till dawning,

nails dug into my back deep

until her kingdoms come,

the ice melts,

the queen burns and

transforms into the mused witch

of sex and manifesto,

painted upon me in ecstasy given.

The Ace of Cups

spills forth,

staggering to the center

of her being and opening upward

with electrics and expressions,

hierophants of desire

and jouissance,

deliverance in artful bodies wrapped

round and through each other,

sighs and intertwining,

melodies inhabiting the art of seduction.

Ah and alas,

there twas nothing

so vibrant,

teasing and pleasing,

momentum rising,

kundalini lifting and blushing,

vipers licking and voodoo pulses,

scents and sensual,

the erotic

made spiritual,

bliss incarnate,

oh god,

don’t stop,

harder,

deeper,

keep going,

oh god,

oh god,

oh god,

fuck yes,

amen.