Saturday, April 25, 2015

The Beast



And now who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s going to bark through the night?
Who’s going to bury
his bone for you today?
and howl for your exclusive delight?


My head has become a slow white dove –
 no match, I’m afraid,
 for the swiftsweet addersss of your fingerssss.

Just a flikflik of the tongue,
one whiplash embrace –

and

already

the rich delicious poison
invades my heart.


And now who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s going to bark through the night?
Who’s going to bury his bone for you today?
and howl for your exclusive delight?


Imagine our bodies in Braille,                                                                                     

finger tongues perusing,
teasing out nuances,
weighing every significance.
We turn over
sheet after sheet.
Each climax foreshadowed,
we read ourselves to sleep.

And now
who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s going to bark
through the night?
Who’s going to bury
his bone for you today? and howl for your exclusive delight?

I love your body’s several smiles
as I press my name on all your mouths.
I love the way your body smiles
in some of your most surprising places.
I love the several smiles your body hides.                                                                                   
I love the hidden ways your body smiles for me.
The Easter Egg Hunt of your passion.
And now who’s going 
to drool at your beauty?
Who’s going
to bark through the night?
Who’s going
to bury
his bone for you today?
and howl
for your exclusive delight?

No music’s only one finger on one string.
The ocean wants a moon to make a tide.
Left foot needs right to create a stride.
And flight requires flow and wing.
It all makes a kind of bawdy sense:
Selfish soliloquy, no audience.

And now who’s 
going to drool at your beauty?  Who’s
going to bark through the night? Who’s
going to bury his bone for you today?
who howl for your exclusive delight?

sticky nights                                                                     
with a peppermintcheeked wonderchild
gumdrop breasts and licorice thighs
and acres of sugar cube smile
(even sweets will turn sour
if left for overnight;
too many lonely long hours
between the passion and delight)

And now who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s going to bark through the night?
Who’s going to bury
his bone for you today?
 and howl for your exclusive delight?

I’ve had my wine.                                                                                                                        
my kiss and my cock,
my garden and my trial.

I’ve got my thorns,
my thief and my hill,
my boulder and my style.
Where are my ring,                                                                                                                   
my fief and my rod,
my halo and my choir?


-- Duane Vorhees

Keith Francese writes



the gift mouth


Tempe skies shaded Parisian
call for gentle dens, the careful placement of hands

Pacific, Pacific

the quays of the Seine shoo pigeons
into sundowns colored desert and above

young lovers in the umbrella light of dim lampposts,
kissing terrific, again and again





Vernon Mooers writes



                                                  Come What May

                                        It’s forty-two in the shade
                                        and nerves fray
                                        on the hot highway
                                        the horns, the squealing tires
                                        heat waves like microwaves
                                        float from the burning asphalt
                                        the sand parched
                                        the rocks like irons
                                        can fry an egg
                                        everything getting cooked
                                        under the burning sun