The silky thrill
The glottal stop
The body past pretending
Bolt upright
Vibrating with desire.
My tongue tastes all of you
And causes the febrile mesh
Of our senses
To saw like the gut on violin strings
Near the edge of fulfillment.
The shudder of night and its deep sighs
Consorts our passion.
Terror lurks.
The dark fear of possession
Hovers over us
Like the supine wings of fallen angels.
We are doomed
Yet the tender ache of our kisses
Can never be erased
Never charmed into fitful memories.
They carve and thrust their white-hot ink
Upon our febrile bodies
Luminous in the night
In the distance of departure
In the shadow of a third party’s dread
We are marked, we are linked
Sheathed as one.
Drenched
We grope towards the light
As the dank brass of hell summons our judgment.
Gar Jones - July 2015