deepundergroundpoetry.com
LOVE AMONG THE BUSHES
This is the jungle that we are in,
where it's better to be in our skin,
than in clothes, now perspiration soaked,
that we shed where by shade we are cloaked.
When our nakedness spares no blushes,
let us make love among the bushes,
The sounds of passion echo around
as I thrust into you on the ground,
or, other way, you cowgirling me,
breasts overhung like fruit on a tree,
us serenaded in the thickets
by nighttime chirping of the crickets.
Shining eyes watch from night darkened trees
as my body's framed between your knees.
In this Aphroditean of feasts
we descend to instincts of the beasts,
where the survival of the species
is affirmed in meetings of the pieces.
where it's better to be in our skin,
than in clothes, now perspiration soaked,
that we shed where by shade we are cloaked.
When our nakedness spares no blushes,
let us make love among the bushes,
The sounds of passion echo around
as I thrust into you on the ground,
or, other way, you cowgirling me,
breasts overhung like fruit on a tree,
us serenaded in the thickets
by nighttime chirping of the crickets.
Shining eyes watch from night darkened trees
as my body's framed between your knees.
In this Aphroditean of feasts
we descend to instincts of the beasts,
where the survival of the species
is affirmed in meetings of the pieces.
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