“A Long Musk”

“A Long Musk”

Let’s go down to that secret place.

That place where you can be who you want to be.

Who you are?

Where we can revel in the glory of attraction and anticipation.

Bated breath.


Chest to breast.

Bold biology.


Elbows, lips, pliable flesh.

Pink, purple, red, mocha.

Salt kisses, fingers submerged.

Dainty fingertips gliding along the periphery.

Sweat, warm wetness.

Pushing through.



Breathless butterflies.

Connected solely through electric fingertips.

Fingerprints intermingle, DNA altered.

Traveling towards the event horizon, no reset.

Skillful ravaging.



Invasive intimacy.

Waves, waves, waves.

Eyes locked.

Final approach.

Hushed encouragements increase the urgency.

Swollen to a point of burst.

A civilization in its ascendency and decline, in one moment.

Palms slapping the top sheet.

Final advances assured.




No stopping the launch sequence.


Traveling up into and becoming one with the atmosphere.

Eventually escaping gravity, and floating.


A sweet reverie, wrapped in languid limbs and surrendered kisses.

An expanding universe that ends and begins in the loins of lovers searching for meaning.

August 2017 Poems-31 Daze


Eleven is a good prime number. One of my favorites. Thank you to Lisa S. K.  for giving me no feelings of compunction in rendering the fat on this one. I love the word moist, as much if not more than those that hate it. I especially love it because it makes so many people cringe. Here’s to uncomfortable feelings, they a part of life that is neglected and ignored all too often.

Let me moisten my fingers before I tickle the keyboard on this one.



Moist is the creep of words.

It makes many members uncomfortable.

I would say it helps to ease some members.

Saturated, sweat swizzlesticks,

Finding merry moist moats.

Cross that hazard to get to the portcullis.

Most portcullis’s,

Or, is it portculli?

Have jagged teeth.

I don’t want to enter,

despite merry moist moats.

Alternatively, perspiration congeals on the

headbands of high-kicking calisthenics coordinators.

Until they are moist enough to be wrung out into a 1980’s Gatorade jar.

Moist mix measured by manly men in macho matinée meets.

Maudlin moods meet mirth makers.

Many manage to malinger long enough to dry off.

But, there is always a moist towel, still somewhere off in the corner.

Slightly tinged with a yellow hue.

One that must be picked up by a gym attendant,

and deeply sniffed for God knows what reason.

Usually, when they think no one is looking.

There is always someone looking.

One time, my father went to Tiki Island,

and he was disappointed.

This occurred because a handi-wipe,

had no moisture.

Moist makes me smirk.

It is a word of power.

A cringe binge.

Defy those that turn up their nose.

Curse them with a dry nasal canal.

One that would require moisture in order to clear up.

They don’t need to breathe.

Having an improper attitude, and all.

Moist is perspective.

Moist is life.

Moist is a word some use to describe certain aspects of things.

Aspects of things.

My moist memories matter.

Mostly, in Mos Eisley.

Most especially, in cakes.

Moist Duncan Hines cakes.

Someone dared me to say moist panties because it would cross a line,

but I’m not going to say that.

This is not that kind of poem.

But then again,

Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

Especially, when she has moist panties.