PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

High's noon's shimmering sunlight pours through the

window, on to his slender nakesness and the

curly cascade of his waist-length hair; then slides

warmly along his agile limbs, his pleasure discs, and his

gnomon's eager thrum to his heart's pulse.  His presence

shatters all inhibitions surreptitiously imposed by

prudes and prejudice alike.  The light is eager to prove the

flawless translucence of his golden silk stockings,

perfectly sheer except at the soft opacity of the doubled

weave that gently embraces and encloses his heels and toes.

Expressed in the beauty of his body, the beauty of his soul

does not disdain your gnarled ugliness, Poet, or your age---

decades elder to his adolescence---as you kneel before

him, to inhale and taste the scents and flavors of his

flesh that he offes to you with neither shyness nor shame:

your poems that claimed him as a Muse, Musa Puerilis, have

restored his confidence just as your employed servants have

cleared the uncouth and envious thugs and haters from

his life.  You feel the shudder of pleasure that courses

through his body, the contraction of certain muscles, and the

acceleration of his breathing as the sevenfold surge commences to

initiate the launch of the spray of his sweetness on its

intimate trajectory that always finds its way to you like a poem.

J-Called

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