Tag: Kissing

Under The Mistletoe

How beautiful to be kissing at Christmas, Just to feel the long wingspans, We possess. A moth to a flame, is like Icarus to the sun. Our soft spot for pyromania. We are weak in the face of combustion, Our lips are always looking to burn. I look at your kerosene aura, And your saintly

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A Kiss

Can there be anything More parsimonious, Than two, trying to broker A bonding interface, between the front line, Of one council of teeth, and scrimshawed Chess pieces of another? To embolden a moment of madness, When little dentine monoliths Take a back seat, while pushing forward A purse that willingly opens up to be The

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First Kiss (Rejected by Permafrost Magazine)

Time stood so still at that perfect moment. The guzzle had dripped to glug I was swallowing slush Flakes of vermillion, of lips Gone cold of waiting. I could trample, trespass or even encroach She had no aversion of any of that. She was like a jug kept inside a cupboard Searching for the ripple

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18

18, the journey begins. I stumble to that destined moment She would hold her stance, her fort Her composure, while I’m like a wildfire Not knowing the twig from the tree I’m like Prometheus, the lips my cauldron As I lunge and clasp a soggy ledge Not knowing the right technique Or the correct angle

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Out-of-Wedlock Kiss

Moment too soon, lips too far Spellbound like an incendiary star How hath mouth collude to taste Defrazzled lips buzz, wasps in haste Scrimmaged game, and paired sport A steeplechaser weathering one’s throat Lips twisting like a spinner’s wrist Oh the flavor, sloth-work till adrift Ajar, agape, so lingers aftertaste Surrender, hath you, to a

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First Kiss

You, the focal point of my desire The lone color in a black and white room I lurk like a shadow searching for light, to shape My contours. A raft afloat in tides of whitewater Pummeling against the elastic endothelium, Not knowing how long this will last – or not, Desire breaking the knots that

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Kiss Sutra

The frog tongue jumps out of Goldfish lips. Frenching is like fencing. Still there’s nothing sordid about Lip smack, even tongue gobble And a kiss, isn’t it the sublime honesty Of yearning-powered lips Fishing with a hook, to ensnare the catch Of a rosy-pink wonderland, Inching towards primal contact? There’s really nothing much towards Kiss

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A Kiss

Retrograde embalms the past Like a wave that tumbled forward Moving backwards, remembering the froth In her path. The velvet svelte Of a tropical sun, the lilac flames on the tip of lips That were extinguished in primal contact An odyssey of elation and sedation A firm grip of what stood on the other shore

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