PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[after Thomas Mann's novel, Death In Venice]

Unusually sultry---that summer Friday night

(no cooling weather predicted or expected;

no weather-changing system in the forecasts' sight):

you joined Jaschu in a covert on the pristine sand;

you had shed all your clothes, except for sheer socks

(the customary inhibitions imposed by prudes had

long since been cast off by both of you).  The

thrill of being naked; the warmth of the fine powder

beneath your soft-sheathed soles; and the way Jaschu

gazed so appreciatively at your aroused beauty 

(enhanced, the way he liked to see, by those socks)

caused your lofter's quick engorgement, rising---

pointing---toward the stars.  A single, glistening

droplet of sweetness had already formed, perhaps

your lofter's homage to the vast stellar grandeur

that filled the cloudless sky above.  Then, as if on

behalf of that sprawling array, Jaschu---without the

least hesitation or second (and contrarily intrusive)

thought---knelt before you, firmly clasping your

well-shaped buttocks from behind, and tasted (then

eagerly devoured) that droplet of sweetness, as

you sighed and tilted your head to the surge of

sensual pleasure, and the sound of the gently thrusting 

tide, lapping the shoreline repeatedly.

Starward