DarkVerse

            

D.I.Y.

      Now I know why poets have composed
      Millions of verses on love unrequited:
      It's because we're often predisposed
      To have our amorous feelings slighted.

      It's not as easy as some have thought
      To suffer for your art,
      There are women galore who call it sport
      To toy with and break your heart.

      Well, never mind, I toast to myself
      As under the table I sink,
      At least I'm not some fairy-tale elf
      With nothing but dewdrops to drink!

      My recurring dream is I'm bedding a whore
      With many a kiss and a cuddle,
      She whispers "I love you" as we fall to the floor
      And it's like making love to a puddle

      With ripples here and nipples there -
      And she keeps coming as I keep going,
      And when at last we've passed all care -
      Into the pool the great fountain starts flowing!

      Though you, perhaps, might deem to spurn
      Debauch such as this, as churlish,
      Distraught with passion, I still yearn
      To bed something palpably girlish!

      Oh to lie beneath heaven's dome,
      With forest scents warm in the breeze,
      Her naked body freely to roam
      To touch, caress and tease.....

      Oh Joy - oh fancy fantasy -
      My ideal woman to tryst!
      But why does it never happen to me....?
      Because she's my psychologist!

      So I'll have to make do with what I've got left
      Since sharing my sex-life is banned.....
      As love isn't free I'll try light-fingered theft
      And take - myself - in hand.

© 1998 Ken Taylor

Written August 30, 1979, at my penthouse flat, Pennsylvania Road, Exeter
Originally a frivolous escape from the anguish occasioned by splitting up with my fiancé who would otherwise have been called Liz Taylor.
A - X-Calibre Vol V, 1988, ISSN 0269-5014
B - Forum Vol 22 No 12, 1989, ISSN 0015-833X
(CP00004C)

       Illusions of Innocence

                          ......touching.......
                    ......tasting.......
            ......stroking.......
           A diffident caress, tracing smooth curves,
      at night he comes to me, fingers reaching to brush my skin,
      teasing, fondling, my body trembling at his touch
      my sensitive flesh erect and hard as he tugs and lightly scratches.......
      He keeps his distance.
      He keeps his eyes lowered, maintaining his illusion of innocence,
      a shy, secret smile the only clue to an inward world I cannot see......
      And I, caught between life and life, screened and remote from the world
      watch his shadowed face, helplessly wondering, helpless under his touch........
      Quivering with uncertain anticipation, unable to move,
      I try to speak.... A gentle hand covers my mouth, stroking my face, and I kiss
      the palm, licking, faint taste of salt on my lips.
      Stroking lower, rousing a flame within me.........
      Still he will not look at me,
      eyes averted to hide the knowledge hidden there.......
      leaving me unsatisfied though sated,
      lusting to know
            what's inside...........

© 1998 Joules Taylor

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© 1999 WordWrights.

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