lust dust  

I love the way  
She plays my piano  
Like the keys are made of breath
Her fingertips  
Are dancing feathers
Dusting an equilibrant mélange  
Of ivory tones and black resonances  
Into little eddies of convulsion  
And mayhem
Which collide and echo
As marvels of eroticized splashes  
Of rapid illumination
And incandescent dappled shades  
Of ineffable harmony
 
My frustration is nebulous
That much is obvious
My impotent lust for masturbation
Has no outlet: unless?
At first it starts with a crude search
For a glimpse of your nipples  
In the warm sunlight of voyeurism
And then seeks to dive under your vest
And cavort with your breasts;  
No telling where this could lead  
The big sleep in a French kiss of little death
 
When will the cloud part  
Your semi formal cocktail dress
And reveal the forfended pearl?
That’s my sacred quest.
 
Thank heaven for sublimation
If it wasn’t for virtuality
I’d rarely have a sniff of sleaze
It sounds like immorality
But it makes my mind at ease.