Tag: Sex

Multiple Orgasms

  O is for Oxygen The lungs that expand and collapse, O is for Oxymoron, The paradoxes, the rain and the sun, In one weather forecast. O is for the Orange, The marmalade moments, Bittersweet, mushy and, O is for Operation Second Coming,   How Oz, taught you that, Love is like the Melbourne weather,

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An Asexual Man

How sweet is Jack fruit, Pani Waraka, Just like the flesh of rambutan, How though, in an anatomy lesson They become metaphoric examples, Resembling the beehive, and The scrotum. How a great divide separates Not just the Koreas, but Also the palindromic symmetry, And the proven asymmetry How one pair of eyes that See the

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Inferno in New York

How the night has infinite possibilities, In New York City. As a Sri Lankan man In Manhattan, in a new blue checked shirt, On a new street he has never set his eyes on before, A 27 year old virgin, who was brand-spanking new, Just like an un-driven car in a dealership, Searching for a

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Missionaries

I’m no black man I’m no gay man, I’m neither, Only an owl, that asks The perennial question “whom” To which there is an answer. A woman in short shorts, Ivory in complexion, Against whose tapestry of skin, Cradled against me, I become both black and gay, Happy as a child in Disneyland, When I’m

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New York Minute

The empty pane That misses humidification On a cold winter day in New York When you need that Starbucks coffee And the burn sensation of curling mustard Over a sausage and a heated bun. Still you’d take that stranger That you met on the corridor That gazed at your eyes imploring A little kindness, and

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A Sonnet (Love)

In that destined instant, between now and never Was a wishbone, longer, beckoning forever She was the lass who counted a whole eternity While he leaned over, and lifted her careless knee And they both bled something beauty could not contain Like the crimson tide, of red sea algae fame, in brief sustain It was

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Sex – In a Nutshell

It’s like the tug-of-war, Between sex object and love fool, In that blurred interface That bloats both, far beyond their capacities, To the witchcraft of tactility. Spellbound, you just walk through love, Not just as a promenade, also as an offering Of your body to hers, To cash in on summer eclipses. Two celestial objects

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The Truth About Love

How dreaded to know that life Is just a big lie? You’re told to love the unlovable, To muster courage when it is easier To be a coward, to succeed when It is just a wave of transience. Sometimes, all life is, is a prison of time, When you’re trapped inside a body, that Empowers,

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Sunday Mornings

The Sunday morning sun Glazing the eye that keeps searching for the foothold Of how beautifying the stitch of your wife is Loosely bellying out to the light Like flesh-colored sugar plums Breaking open on my skin, with a slow drip of honey. Oh how beautiful is the land of the sugar plum fairy. And

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