Sounding the Wet Walls of Propaganda


First tell me your secret wish
How your lashes burn on my skin
Your little hands tab my dynamic points
Like circular chiropractic motions

I ask you where you want to go
You tell me with a naked sigh
You want the journey of the flesh
The progress of lust to the twenty-first century

First tell me your secret spot
Where orgasm plays a propaganda
Of feminine charm so covert
You make me smile through my teeth

As I advance upon your instance
And you open up like a cherry religion
Of softness, melted heat and little extravagance
You beg me now, we’ve been here before.


Like the Last Day of June


Before you know it, it will be high summer
With blue shooting stars
At your fingertips
The air will smell pungent
Like wild mustard seeds

And it will be hot, hot enough
To stain your blouse with sweat

And you will feel warm and tingly all over
A hay fever of your femininity
There won’t be much to say
Not when we’re naked
On the last day of the jazz festival

There will be fireworks in another part of town
But in your bedroom, zippers will

Unzip, water against water
Skin to skin, before you know it
Evening will touch the last day of June
And you will whimper, and you will swoon
And I’ll be the one, stripping you
Your panties moist with excitement.