“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.

Sweat.

Chest to breast.

Bold biology.

Fulfillment.

Elbows, lips, pliable flesh.

Pink, purple, red, mocha.

Salt kisses, fingers submerged.

Dainty fingertips gliding along the periphery.

Sweat, warm wetness.

Pushing through.

Resistance.

Momentum.

Breathless butterflies.

Connected solely through electric fingertips.

Fingerprints intermingle, DNA altered.

Traveling towards the event horizon, no reset.

Skillful ravaging.

Contentment.

Certain.

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.

Bucking.

Thrashing.

Grinding.

No stopping the launch sequence.

Liftoff.

Traveling up into and becoming one with the atmosphere.

Eventually escaping gravity, and floating.

Floating…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.

“Tunnel Vision”

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“Tunnel Vision” © C.P.Hickey 2018

 

 

“Tunnel Vision”

 

Down in the earth.

Dug out.

Hide out.

Subterranean surreal.

What sounds come from train tunnels when there are no trains?

Real rails.

Solid, metallic.

Rigid and bendy.

Electric wires spun like webs,

waiting to coax conveyances through.

Darkly lit depots.

Abandoned newspapers, soon extinct.

Browning yellow warning strips minimally offend.

Deeper still are secrets.

There must be more to these cobbled caverns.

Each station the tip of an archaeological iceberg.

Years upon years of gradual being.

Patient.

Amounting.

Mini ant colonies.

Industrious fellows.

Graffiti.

Neglect.

Earthen girth.

Shadows.

Buried fears.

Ghosts of progress.

Terminal.

A way underneath, not on, or through.

Echoes of screeching metal wheels appear.

Waiting.

Waiting infinitely.

Is there light at the end of the tunnel?

Don’t know, I’ll ask the driver.