Lavender Nude
by
Daniel E. Blackston
Let's make our skin paper,
write with fingertip and tongue
the dirtiest poems we can imagine:
a sonnet scribbled with sweat
and breath, blank verse that tumbles us,
clear and wet, to a flash
where all flesh bends to curves
and all curves bend to flesh.
Let's make myths of the smells
that pump from armpit, neck, and thigh,
find a simile -- like lightning -- to describe
how our bones seem to blaze,
how our spines feel suddenly
plugged straight into the Divine.
Let's rhyme, over and over, the slap
of skin with our small moans,
slam ourselves dizzy as our love-songs
spin over comforter and pillow,
each gasp a nonce that prestos
out a new name for pleasure.
Thrust after thrust, our onomatopoeias
define the plunge, the sizzle sting,
as we ride deep to caesura,
a bee flown honey-deep
in a lavender flower.
Follow me on Twitter @BlackstonDan for more Desert Nudes and poetry news.
Please don't SHARE this link or poem with anyone. Thanks so much!
by
Daniel E. Blackston
Let's make our skin paper,
write with fingertip and tongue
the dirtiest poems we can imagine:
a sonnet scribbled with sweat
and breath, blank verse that tumbles us,
clear and wet, to a flash
where all flesh bends to curves
and all curves bend to flesh.
Let's make myths of the smells
that pump from armpit, neck, and thigh,
find a simile -- like lightning -- to describe
how our bones seem to blaze,
how our spines feel suddenly
plugged straight into the Divine.
Let's rhyme, over and over, the slap
of skin with our small moans,
slam ourselves dizzy as our love-songs
spin over comforter and pillow,
each gasp a nonce that prestos
out a new name for pleasure.
Thrust after thrust, our onomatopoeias
define the plunge, the sizzle sting,
as we ride deep to caesura,
a bee flown honey-deep
in a lavender flower.
Follow me on Twitter @BlackstonDan for more Desert Nudes and poetry news.
Please don't SHARE this link or poem with anyone. Thanks so much!
