In the small hours when the world is thin,There is only me
and the unbearable weight of everything I never was.
Nothing whispers 'enough.'
Enough time, enough joy
Enoughpleasuresenoughdissapointments
Enough.
In the small hours there is only me
And enough is never
one of my first poems. I got better, but I still like this one.
CRAVE
The look that warms.
The strange gravity that pulls stray thoughts into tight little orbits,
around memories of you
The wine-tinged evenings and long goodnights.
These things I crave, even when I forget.
Even as I sleep.
The narrow bridge from then to now,
spans a vast abyss of trinkets,
a life nearly choked with consolation prizes.
I sift through them all, searching for gold,
finding moments with you.
These I crave.
Freshly fucked.
Shirley exhaled, enjoying the lingering sensations. She always felt lighter after a good orgasm, and this had been one for the record books. She turned in bed to face Tom. He was snoring lightly and she could see the bottom hairs of his mustache waving in the wind. She smiled and gently placed her hand on his bare chest.
Tonight had been wonderful. Tom had taken her to the Paris Inn, her favorite overpriced restaurant. Shirley had ordered two dozen oysters.
“I don't know how you can eat those things,” Tom said. It was a familiar conversation, repeated throughout their years of marriage. Tom was a stubborn man when it came to trying new things, and oysters seemed to be a deal breaker with him. Shirley held up an oyster on her tiny fork, already drowned in cocktail sauce and horseradish.
“If you eat one, I'll give you a blowjob.” It was bold talk for Shirley, even with a shot of tequila to help heat the works.
Tom immediately countered. “If I eat one, I get to do anything I want with you for the night.
“For one oyster? No. I'll blow you if you eat one. If you eat three, I'll let you do anything, and we both know what that means.”
In the end, he hadn't eaten any of the oysters. Shirley couldn't blame him. She had made a string of outrageous promises lately and then backed out when it was time to pay the piper.
Tonight though, Tom was smart not to take the bet. They both ended up drinking too much. Despite the strong buzz, they risked the short drive home and went straight to the bedroom. By silent consent, they abandoned the usual, established methods of sex that inevitably creep into the lives of married couples.
Shirley smiled in the darkness, and gently rubbed her leg against her husband's thigh. Tom's mouth had been amazing. She must have cum four times before she found herself on her hands and knees, being fucked from behind by a wild man. The image stoked the heat between her legs and she felt herself blush like a post prom teenager.
She sighed the sigh of the contented and closed her eyes. Four good years. No children, but they would come. Or not. They would be great parents. But they would also be a great couple, if that's how things panned out.
Tom turned away from her in his sleep. There was a small patch of freckles on the back of his right shoulder. Shirley tried to remember if there had been that many before. They were clustered in a way that reminded her of grapes. Had she ever been reminded of grapes before? She didn't think so. That didn't mean anything, freckles in moonlight were like clouds in the sky. One moment they might remind her of a rabbit, the next a cluster of grapes. Still, she'd make an appointment with his doctor, just to be safe. If she left it to him, he'd never do it. There is something genetic about men that makes it impossible for them to contact anyone in the medical profession. It's probably the same part of the brain that refuses to allow them to ask for directions.
She leaned in to Tom's sleeping body and kissed his back. Her man.
You could kill him, if you wanted.
The thought hit her like a slap. Shirley sat up, the covers falling away from her tits. Tits that had been devoured by her husband's mouth less than an hour ago. It came out of nowhere, for no reason. The thought held no appeal to her. Of course not! It felt more like a message that had been beamed into her head.
It's nothing. A random thought, that's all. Probably something I saw on TV or read about.
Tom murmured something in his sleep. It was a soft sound, and not something that bothered Shirley in the slightest.
We're in love. We're normal.
She quietly got out of bed and made her way to the bathroom without bothering to turn on the light or close the door. She washed her face with some cold water, scrubbing away a small patch of dried cum. She stood before the mirror. She couldn't see her reflection, but she stared anyway.
That's the beauty of it. There's no motive. No anger, no reason. I'm not crazy. I would never, ever hurt him.
She turned so that she could see him lying on the bed, a familiar shadow.
That's the appeal. The power to do something ... random. For no reason other than I could.
She went back to the bed intending to slide under the blankets and snuggle up to her man. Maybe wake him up with her mouth.
He would certainly enjoy that.
Instead she found herself standing next to her side of the bed. Tom was snoring lightly. She hardly noticed it anymore. Shirley yawned and rubbed her temple. She was tired and crazy thoughts were just crazy thoughts. People had them all the time, she was sure. Tom looked so cute in the dark. Without her face pressed up against him, his freckles and mustache hairs waiving in the wind all disappeared. She reminded herself again to make an appointment with the dermatologist for Tom. Just to be safe.
There was no force in the world that would prevent her from walking back into the bathroom, taking the heavy lid off the back of the toilet, walking over to the bed, and bashing Tom's head as he slept. There are consequences, of course. But they come after. There was nothing actually stopping her from doing it. To kill someone who completely trusted her, who loved her and who she loved.
It's as close to being God that a person can get.
At some point Shirley found herself back in the bathroom. She stood in the doorway for a long time.
She stood there for no reason at all.
Hot cappuccino, with a splash of sweet whipped cream,
pure liquid, heated treat.
Warm and lush going down.
That's how I imagine you'd taste.
Sake
by Mr. Anderson
I had the smallest taste.
Liquid heat, gifted from lips.
One long moment spent lost in her warmth.
Fleeting. I should have drunk more.
Would she have relented to one more sip?
One final taste?
“Be careful,” she warned. “It hits you later.”
And it did.
And it does.
Thoughts of hot sake,
a delicious, slow burn,
haunt my every hour;
leaving me drunk, wandering through the day
in search of just a little more.
Intimacy is safer in a long night.
A caress, a taste
freedom to take
without exposure.
Delicious taboos revealed and slaked while hidden
in dark.
No one to see you surrender.
Lips open
legs part
submission holds you down
and you drown in the pleasure of pleasing.
In our darkness where no one can see.
This is neither prose nor dark, but I read a comment in a forum that made me think of something I wrote several years ago, and here it is:
AFTER
You haven't lived until she dances just for you,
under the kitchen lights,
naked except for the gray cotton shirt;
Southside Johnny demanding
'Talk to meee!'
Freedom, love and light -- the trifecta of bad poetry--
She embodies, makes holy.
She laughs, arms waving above her head.
The gray cotton shirt pulled higher...
Magic.
Her joy calls out, and even the stones respond.
She leans closer
still dancing, singing;
noses touch, more laughing.
You haven't lived until she dances just for you
in the small hours under kitchen lights.
I went to the lake,to our spot.
there were daffodils there.
i smiled at that, then cried a little.
you want to hear something funny?
they scare me.
they are so, so yellow.
they screamed caution.
I almost kept walking,
but the sun is out, and I am here.
and you are here.
daffodils are many things.
but they are not witnesses.
so I'll stay.
for a while.
PIE
She served him pie she knew was ruined.
Then stood there, practically daring him to say something. She watched him choke down each dry, charred, mouthful.
In barely a whisper,"i burnt it on purpose ."
over and over, like a cliched suburban mantra.
Her husband didn't hear her, but the boy did. He heard and remembered.
Years later, when his wife burned dinner, he was ready.