Pussy Fever In Technicolor

I have such pussy fever
but I am loyal.
So many passing women,
in all their infinitely
different energies and beauties,
turn into constellations
that mesmerize me and
I dream beneath their skies,
dreaming deep and soulful breaths
for fleeting, passing moments.
This woman with thick arms.
This one with an afro.
This one who speaks with conviction.
This one speaking soft and cool.
This one with perfect hips.
This one with rose-carved lips.
This is a new season for me.
An era with new eyes.
With the eyes of a woman now
I believe in and lust women
more than ever before.
Believe all that we have to live for.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.
So you, my suave faced, buxom love,
you get the best version of me.
The best I’ve ever been.
The dreamiest of my heart
and the loveliest of my love.
I’ve told you this before.
This is why I eat your pussy
as if you and I are in heaven.
I see you sad, I see you angry.
I see you amused AND forthright.
Broken AND driven.
Exhausted AND sultry.
I want you AND THEN I want you.
Perfect FOR me. Humanly imperfect.
Tender and blue eyed,
honey kissed nipples.
Speaking at a conference.
Folding laundry.
Bringing me a bagel.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.

Maybe We’ll Kiss

Maybe we’ll kiss again
when the waves come back in
and the eyes and hands
that naturally stray
decide to stay.
Decide upon
some summer evening,
I guess this is okay.
I guess this is exceptional.
Exceptionally unnoticed
of the times that are exceptional,
breaths of angels
and silken skin
betwixt anger and frustration.
Exceptionally unnoticed,
fallen breaths in Southern humidity,
hidden things on Southern winds
and Southern birds.
Hidden breaths.
Hidden portals.
Hidden lands.
Doors to lots of other places
other than Angel Land.

Exceptionally unnoticed
those Earthlings walking
to and fro and talking to
the souls and the band of souls.
Hold onto or let go of the one
hand in the cosmos
whom you know as spirit and
mortal.
Dimensions crossed, dimensions
crossed once and singularly
in this sacred configuration.
Though eyes and hands,
they naturally stray.
Love is cheap to dying ones.
But shouldn’t it be the opposite?
Maybe we’ll kiss again,
I shrug and turn to vapor.

Watching The Port In Angel Land

I’ve seen the young girls
these days.
She will go far and wide,
as the old saying goes.
She has lovely hips.
I wish I had them,
but oh well,
shit is what it is.
We all go on our sailings.
Some stay in port.
I still really love her,
watching her sip her
Mexican soda with a straw
through her lipgloss lips.
I wonder about her journeys
ahead.

I Believe In Angels

Years ago
when traveling back home
in the middle of the night
in the car with my father’s 2nd wife
after we had visited him
in a treatment facility for his
crack cocaine addiction,
his wife shared with me
that she believed in angels.
She spoke of them in the Christian sense;
having wings, being dressed in white,
but being invisible
and flying around to help people in need.
I sat there in the sad darkness of
the moving car
and thought the stuff coming out of
her mouth
was absolute bullshit.
Now, after having transitioned to female
and had soulful lesbian sex with a woman
… now yes, yes I do believe in angels
and I know they’re living, breathing,
here on earth.

Five Hundred & Forty-Five Mornings

One of these days you’ll
not wake up
and all the people you will
have ever loved
will be dead.

Tell me that is not the way towards love.
Rather,
show me that won’t come true
for you.
Show me.

Show me little things matter.
That they’re here.
That you’re here, alive.
Not just waiting for moments
of love to pass,
to pass on,
to be something without you
or to be something with
only you and you alone.

Come touch my sensual body and
my passionate soul
here in the morning,
the 6,540th morning you have left
on this earth.
For if you touch it
once every 12 days
that means you have
545 mornings left to touch me.

If you touch it,
death holds off on its road to the stars
for one less moment.

Make me some kind of sentient lover.
Am I a seraphim again?
Let me be made as a woman.
Find me a woman.
Bring her tongue to my nipples.

Better Than I Do

I thought it was really cute
watching you crush on King Princess
at the concert the other night.

And even though
we’re happily monogamous
from my side of things
you have a free pass
should the two of you
ever have the chance to
sleep with each other.
If that ends up happening,
I’m curious if they’ll end up
eating your pu$$y better than I do.
I mean, if they like eating pu$$y
as much as they sing about,
they’ll be in heaven with yours;
it is that much of a god damn godsend
delicious, delightful, and so
wonderfully textural,
pristine, blissful,
fresh, spring morning pu$$y.
It tastes as beautiful as you look,
with your smooth, velvety eyelids,
crystalline blue eyes,
presentful gaze,
impeccable skin and succulent lips.
Anyhow,
if they do end up eating your pu$$y
better than I do,
then I look forward to knowing
you felt incredible
and also listening and learning
what I might be able to modify
in order to make our experience
generally blissful.

Go Back Dolphin Lesbians

I’d like to go back to where
the psychic ancient dolphin lovers
frolic, fuck, and grind in the azure water,
gnawing their sharp little teeth
on each other,
shredding the salt water with sunlight
in passionate, carnal wails
in the midst of longingly deep thrashing
ocean.

I’d like to go back, but
I can’t.
That’s just some far off, far out
cosmic memory now,
here to surface and die in my genome
like that aborted baby girl my girlfriend
and I let die years ago,
here only to be a feeling.

Blue eyes drifting in a car
on a sunny New Mexico day,
some afternoon never again,
just continuing on in the Universe.

Here only to be a feeling.

Wiring Around My Heart

In the pet store
two hours after we had sex
a wry smile breaks on my face.
I think about savoring and tasting,
taking in your pussy and your soul,
your moans that release
your reflexes of control
for a moment.
It’s a real pleasure to do that to you.
I can still taste you in my mouth,
breathe you in my nose.
Just the thought of it.
eases my blood pressure,
makes me feel like I’m on vacation.
It rivets my soul.
Makes me know that I’m a woman.
To be a woman is soulful.
Now on aisle twelve
I grab the prescription food
for my sixteen year old
gray-blue kitty cat.
I’m a good cat mom.
I love that little fucker so much.
The two of you
have wiring all around my heart.