PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I sure do---yes!---admire Mister Wilde's tongue,

from which so many witty slurs emerge

to cut down and reduce critical foes

to nothing; and, if possible, to less

than nothing.  Each of words will outlast

them all---those poseurs whose time is a waste.

Though Cockney, I am called Adagio

by him during our lovemaking:  the flow

of pleasure quickens us, but without haste.

Our sumptuous feast of bliss is never fast.

This hotel's suite is full of luxury

(a beige decor, with a huge tapestry---

Orpheus and Kalain's passion---hung).

Safe in his firm, yet delicate, embrace,

I yield my slender, almost nakedness 

given entirely to him to caress,

as he desires, without imposed condition

(or any thought to prudish inhibition).

His tongue glides over me to take a taste;

even to sampling (through silk socks) my toes;

and always gently, always tenderly.

When I am with him, I am not afraid

of haters who resent us and degrade

our feelings and would like to cause

to us, and others like we are, duress

and couthless insults they have crudely flung.

But none deserve to fear when love is made.

As lavender flowers come the bee,

I harvest his sweetness during its surge

(in seven waves)---and, sometimes, with a trace,

after the final lap, left on my face.