What shall I do, what shall I do since now some other man has to himself the woman I once made alive, now has her low accented whisperings against his ear, now knows her rests, her quiet times, her work bound risings early in the day, her cherishings, knows now the snow curve of her shoulders and her neck, the way they taste like nothing else within the world, and how she, sultry, tilts her head, and raises up her chin into a dare, and gives her sly and knowing smile before she opens for a kiss?
You might wish to know that still I feel the singe your fingers seared upon on my lips as you touched them in our lazing “afterwards” when we were lovers long ago in London and in Oxfordshire. Its heat is always lying there remembered even when I sleep -- and still despite the years since then remains as if an embering.
Whose bodies my old hands once touched, how much and why, I can no longer sharply bring to mind, nor all the lovely heads that rested lazing on my chest. Too long ago, it’s true, that they were pillowed there for this. And yet, were they in all their fleshy tenderness entirely forgotten? No, oh no! At least some shadow of the taste of them, how slim their waists, how sly and dark their eyes, and how their mouths were belled around desire persists, and ah! this memory as well: how colour sang within their hair (their...
When you first came to me you were desire aflame and honey mouthed, your lips singed mine with heat. And now you are a golden wine and I a drunken man who knows the taste of you. I languish, lost contentedly, within its savoring.
Let's sample indolence today, lay hold of lazing hours and make them ours to daze ourselves deliciously with sleep and, in between our naps, with mouth on mouth repeatedly.
And then, when after that, when we're replete and careless, eye to eye and cosset coved, let's doze the day away, and then the night by melting in each others arms upon my couch, my floor, my bed like slowly heated caramel;
make jealous laziness itself in how we, listless, lie unworried and unworrying, ...
If, at night, when you are far away from me, and the full moon splays bone light upon my window’s casement edge, I go naked to my west room and kneeling, howl your name, like some lonely wolf up on a ridge, long tongued, panting, calling hunger to his mate, into the arc of silver up above him there -- Who’s to say this isn’t prayer?
Old Joseph-Z has now rehearsed the bald assertion he has made with frequency that here on DUP there is no one who wants, or feels the need, to read my “overlong” critiques of his attempts at verse. He says, within a kind of hissy fit, that they are all off-putting screeds.
So please, I wonder if you’ll take a little time to write and let me know just how you feel about these churlish claims.
Post here upon this page (or on the one where Joseph spews disdain on my critiques**) some words that...