The Beast

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 

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HER NAME IS JENNY AND MANY A MORN HAS WORN HER FACE

:daybreaks are harlots all scarlet and huge with rouge and paste.

:some skies all rosy with hosiery (her limbs so prim, so chaste!).

:some days hemorrhage like courage at our battleplace.

:other sunrises are sizes too small -- whole yards of lace:

silk towns are pretty, but cities of silk go wilt and waste.

(So like my Jenny: her any is much; her touch, embrace.)

(There is no middle. A little with her will work long ways.)

:brown coffee mornings come pouring right up from cup to taste.

:all these sunrisings (dawn-icings) -- like thieves, they leave no trace.

(So unlike Jenny;.

so many a morn has worn her face, so many evenings. Her leaving goes dim with flimsy haste.)