In dreams:
I've sampled your peach-shaped mouth.
There's sweetness on every surface,
a sip in a corner
a pull in another
But your mouth, open and full,
invites a tilted brow with its curiosity.
It's a new sort of fullness
inexperienced and nuanced
new moons
daisy buds cupping water
waiting to be sipped.
In this game of titans, there is only one victor while the other is left to wonder how the universe became so small: 30 feet by 30 feet laterally while the squares that define your territory mock you with their lazy chalked lines.
You have the baseline, named thus as much for its role as the starting point, your foundation, as it is for the hollow growl coming from the instrument of so much peril and anticipation. From the back the legs are screaming, the muscles are taut. The body is a throb that pulsates in hot yearning, a blood filled vessel that beats, waiting to shift. For as much charade as i
It's like the taste of copper after the tea stain disappears in the throat.
It's like asking for pennies to buy a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
It's like the sound a tree makes (or a wall) when something inside it dies.
It's like when I was asleep for all those days, the throb in my head.
It's like when I noticed the smell of burnt mahogany, how sweet its rot.
It's like when someone mentions the Spanish economy, tells me how beautiful la costa is.
It's like spring after the rains.
It's like summer after the rains.
It's like autumn after the rains.
It's like winter with brown patches in the white grass.
It's like sharing already che
On the process of eating a peach:
dry: the walls never touch, just suck each other in.
the core, jagged and punctured, sacred and holy
as a mountain, as Fuji, as a mantis finger.
it's lovely when outside the body, all bone
and brine, and browns dipped in deep crimsons and virgin yellows.
when my lips sip the sweetness,
the pit, exposed and hard, is waiting to be plucked.
it unfastens, crchcrchshnuck, like that.
now the cavity, now the lovely reds surrounding the home.
the slit, strong, stretched with a red that smells sweet.
a finger placed in the centre, a birth canal, a host.
a lick, a sting, a sweet drip like lips puckering,
untitled27 a.k.a. porunpintor by Yvning, literature
Literature
untitled27 a.k.a. porunpintor
We've become culprits of a three-way romance.
Bending gravity into 33rds, making religion with coffee
or perfect skin and things soft like that.
We nibble and spit,
taste the twine of one ashen,
molten into herself.
We argue about the flavour of tongue,
we debate the details of a ribcage.
What I know, my albatross,
my stoic pintor,
is that these swollen seconds
betray you, your Peruvian blush.
Even as I remember the tint
of this lovely brunette's stomach,
the wax drip between my thighs
is what sews me to your brush
and creates an arc in the spine
that only your water colours can emulate.