From whom emanate
And life, and little death.
But bones cannot disseminate
They, too, must have their flesh.
So, fingers, over hillock glide;
Your charms and everything inside.
You needle-hold and scratch, caress,
Tapering off to tenderness.
-Homage to My Hands
I would love to see the erotically tinged poetry of other group members, posted as a reply to this if 't is most expedient.
It's a good thing not too many people are applying for permission here Because it makes it that much easier to say that due to circumstances beyond my control I will be unable to process anyones applications... We might get you approved but who knows about posting...
I'm sorry for any inconvience.
Also sorry for any typos I'm having to type fast.
Lust drives one to distraction; it renders its victims unable to eat, sleep, or give any sort of attention to that which isn't its object. It winds with sinews whose deceptively smooth edges pinch the flesh between their lengths; it hangs by hairs and makes tongues leaden in their baths of buttery saliva.
I have neither eaten nor slept since your arrival. I've been rendered mad by your presence, so close to me, yet undeniably seperate. Come to me tonight; break through corpreal barriers and insinuate yourself into the tight weave of my snowdrift bed-coverings, down into the place where the delicate white blankets the peach of the earth.
He Who Is In My Head is the most fabulous Muse I've yet been party to, save myworseself.
Wrapped in double-sided fur, laid down on a thick matress bounded by an elaborately-carved mahogany bedstead. The winter air would have crept in behind the heavy brocade curtains and would be milling about the feet of the bed, waiting to bite. It would longingly caress the thick leather of his riding boots, angling into the exadurated folds created at his ankles when he'd crouch to peel the fur coverlet away from my body, to run his cool, dark eyes over me, whetting me.
I can't see; it's too dark. I feel two large, smooth hands: one on my thigh and the other curled around my waist. The long fingers dig into my flesh, as tightly as icicles dropping anvil-like into the snow. Firm, creamily-textured lips materialize through the dark upon my own, as warm as the long, heavy body that drapes itself over me; silk and velvet on unadulterated skin. His mouth breaks off of my own with a tiny snapping sound. I strain after his face-
Lay back down, my heart.
Is the velvet of his jacket as deliscious as his deep, sonorous voice? His murmur burns my ear. Something's going to happen; precogniscent tremors run through me wherever he should brush. Something will happen. But I don't know what.