Your hourglass figure:
Very timely,
Elegant like a marble chess-piece,
Invitingly symmetric.
How I
Long to turn you upside down and
Hear the sands sifting through you.
I say,
Do stop that squirming and carrying on...
I'll turn you back again
In just an hour,
Just another blissful
Hour.
You know,
It might be kind of cool
To be your slave,
Not in a spiked collar and whip sort of way, mind you,
Just
Kind of an adorable kittenhood:
To rub my head again your skin,
Nuzzle your smooth, sweet breasts,
To lick and groom you,
Sniff your golden mane,
Kiss your naked thighs,
The rose of your loins,
Dewy hot and pungent:
Ah, bliss,
The sounds of your gasping.
When you pet me, I tingle,
When you clasp me to you,
Eyes feverish and fierce,
I want to scream like a woman,
Cry and swear I'll be good,
In your immortal arms,
To offer up my soul.
Horny in my solitude,
I cast off rhymes in favor of
Easy, dignified rauchiness.
Your breasts are the proper place
To lose myself
(Or is it, rather, a kind of finding).
Your snatch is like the Fertile Crescent,
Primal valley where cities lie unborn.
O future mother of Sumer and Babylon,
Let me wander your hanging gardens,
Learn your ancient customs,
Read the laws writ on your clay tablets.
But say nothing,
Be silent about your
Hell of a day at the office,
Or your
Breaking a nail at lunch.
Or say sweet things like:
"Fuck me!" or
"Oh God!" or...
Well, something unspellable but with lots of vowels.
Make me
Stupid with incoherence;
Like a stern mistress,
Ride me until I collapse speechless.
Give me something
Greater than anything my words
Could possibly describe.
At very least,
Say you'll have lunch with me.
George Chadderdon © 1997