Never more than a passing thought

A nibble of an itch
brings the hand
to just below the belt buckle
and I think of you;
someone.

The mind is barraged
by contorting images
of fiction
based upon fact.
The all too familiar
sides are stripped
from being.
Everyone here
is silent lust.
No social idioms
turning wanton stares
at a tight ass
in to a cringing match
with acronyms used verbally
in abundance.

For here is silent lust;
your childishness
is chained to another bed.
Every smile bares a sharpened tooth.
And, as I slide down
the quivering stomach,
on to my knees,
where I can gaze up
at the person I will shortly leave.
Still, as waters
moisten a mouth dried by cigarettes
I can reach around,
and grab that ass
knowing that words will be left
for someone else to deal with...

It is a cruel world
in which the finest of pleasures
resound in the dreams
of flowers who are yet
to know themselves.