Animal Hunger
#3 of Erotic Poetry
Happy National Poetry Month, folks! I wrote this to celebrate and figured I'd share it--if for no other reason than to dispel any rumors that I've gone off the grid to live in an Amish commune. (Frankly, that was fun for about the first three hours.)
The taste slides over tongues lapping
at the mouths of caverns, wildly gulping
down clouds of meat-scented smoke.
Another flavor, piquant and alive, tempts
analogies to violence. Picture pocket knives
inscribing sordid rhymes at an orchard's edge,
fruit overhead dangling achingly ripe
and dying to be plucked.
Worlds subside behind that insatiable
yearning, the biting heat burning a hole
through years of guided stage direction. Gnaw,
lick, grope, claw at the prize of flesh,
warm and writhing, slick and melting like
a silent camera flash in boudoir lighting.
Melting like reason against unsatisfied desire,
wax bowls holding light or fear amid throws
of passion, winding through undergrowth
outside urban spires.
Melting like the brackish, foaming
tide of climax, plunging into fluid slumber
and dreams of howling beasts that glide
beneath the arch of strange hours, into the blazing
wide dawn where hunger waits restless and pacing
like a predator inside.