The Art of Seduction

In the dark,
to be aroused slowly by soft hands,
caressing lips on curves
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
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
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,
keep going,
oh god,
oh god,
oh god,
fuck yes,

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