When Gigi Goes to Town

So many people play the clit like a fiddle.
Gigi plays it like a harp.
The melodies layer, layer up with every touch that resounds upon the next
to the Blue Danube Waltz and fall to a nocturne.

The stickiness of a honey trove on her pointer finger that strokes alone
while the other hand orchestrates the harmonic inside the puffing violet underground and brings she and her most inward nerves to one consciousness.

When Gigi Goes to town, it's raining outside.
The late night shows have expired into the midnight.

The milky moon stands above her house
and even the lovers are fast asleep.

What you do, do for yourself.
And it tickles to crawl down your abdomen with long slender fingers,
to nestle in the areola like a cat,
wet it with saliva and shock it with pincers.
Her grip is so sudden, then back to the outside ring and reclaiming what the fantasy is this time.
Breathe deeply and sigh,
while the fog still rises from you.

When Gigi Goes to town, the crescendo is Beethoven's Fifth
and constant mania.

The eyes are wider than the roof. There is no roof.
The bed has no springs. It just floats.

But a woman, a woman true, she feels it all over with her palms, not for pleasure yet, but to carry every inch of curve to the heaven she dreams with wet eyes.

Though Heaven trickles down from the bumpy white patterns in the roof
and strings her up by her hips like a marionette as she returns to the harp in circles until the chords break,
a little faster, deeper into her swollen leisure.

Oh my. Oh my. When Gigi Goes to town.

The body is hot like streams of fire
are pumping from the peripheral chemoreceptors in every vessel.

The musician and the instrument are one in the same.
Heaven pulls her up till she levitates by her waistline and shocks her through alignment of some stars.

At once she drops. She had gone. She had come. And she had come back.

But everyone's still asleep.
She closes her lids and dreamt of cherub wings.