Down and up, like so many things. What-when hearts colliding brings. Fabled story telling brings. Close closed lips, meeting iris rings. Cords and flesh outward sing. Rub back, forward perspirings. And fed breasted babes are harrowing- to bosom and baptism we all cling. 

No act no words. Oh our breath is shared. All is won, and lost in bed.

The perversion of food. Eroticism. My acid tongue. Experiencing everything inside myself. A slave? No. Cream. Word associate! The family. The run-off. 

Adoption of ideas. I’m so shallow, boring basic, overthinking useless, wailing Devils advocacy. Private, intimate, shallow, wasted, poignant. Face clutching, animated, story teller. Experiential. Presidential. Free, bluesy, basic, brilliant, inclusive, angry, lost and left behind. Thigh scraping, fem, gem, then, them other,

Mother. Lost flags rail against my skin on a beach in the middle of my cold back. Sweet pain, bitterness and an unwritten story to mourn, select, wish and love my old grand lasting memory. 

Wild intensity finds stratus fields of view. Catastrophe after normal periods of coin covered hate. Falling diabolically in the Hugo Train station of laughter and listing loss. I lessen and lustnover Liath, the Virgin of transparent honesty. “I am not ready”. I respected, relented, talked and slept. No weeping or uncomfortable wanting. Just rest, rugby isn’t the game for me my love. I don’t pass backwards, it’s ok.

But I’m gone now and I wonder what you’re thinking.

Edinburgh, I will come–

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