I Moan

I could gasp
Breath taken away by how much I love you;
The way you love me.
But I’ll probably moan about it instead,
Reliving you as you
Come inside my head.


Francesca Says More by Olena Kalytiak Davis

When you have time to kill, like when you are doing a Francesca and just casually hanging out in the second circle of hell, it’s amazing what great poems you can happen upon, take this fragmented sonnet by Olena Kalytiak Davis for example. According to Dan Chiasson in his article for thNew Yorker, “her poems feel like quickies, rough liaisons where ‘sex meets books.’” I kind of agree with this poem, and I like it. 

that maiden thump was book on floor, but
does it really matter who kissed who
first or then who decided to go further?
lower? faster? naturally, we took
turns on top. now here, now there, and up
and down…once it started no one even thought to think to stop.
so, we have holes inside our souls,
but mustn’t we begin by filling others’?
god gave us lips and hands and parts
that cannot possibly be saved for prayer. nor by.
i will not name name, claim fame by how well
or who i fucked or why, it happens all the time.
and it’s you, white pilgrim, whom next galehot seeks.
fuck. we didn’t read again for weeks.


Words have proved elusive this week but I found some in the end...


The Kiss by Edvard Munch

At night, in that cold, steel silence
Silvered in moonlight
They come together
Their white forms one,
Then two again;
Dancers on a cotton stage,
Intuitive, beautiful.

The orchestra of imagination
Plays on as they move,
His powerful limbs
Leading her with a
Graceful fierceness and
A touch that trails fire,
Speaks of love and
Untold desire.


That wild staccato rhythm
Two hearts beat.
Two heart beats
Tapping out morse code messages to
…- – – …
As red hot blood courses through blue veins,




Her name was as delicious as she was.
It would roll off your tongue like cream
Covered strawberries eaten in the Summer,
As you made love on red velvet picnic blankets,
Under the lemonade sun.

A Picture


It made a glorious picture:
The nude and his lover
In a car 
In a field
Behind a hedge,
On the other side of which,
An old man walked
And cyclists, panting uphill, passed,
Whilst the nude and his lover
Just moaned and gasped.

Silent Languages

We slide our tongues with fluency
Over the languages
We make our own,
Wrapping mouths articulately
Around words that only we understand,
Written in rhythms only we can move in.
We speak sensuously, silently, slowly, in images,
Understanding intuitively the need for
Deeper meanings,
Harder, more powerful metaphors
To communicate with.
We lip read each other eagerly,
Greedily mute with a desire
That renders us capably incapable
Of any vocabulary but touch.
We voice each other
Lingering over,
Then swallowing,
The separate,