So long ago I saw you last unwrap
that bulging bosom from its draped attire,
to offer me so lusciously your paps
which, ever since I sucked them, I’ve admired.
If now within those orbs there be desire,
I’ll fondle them to make their lust ignite,
and when the turgid nipples are afire,
I’ll satiate my whetted appetite.
As when, upon a woodland floor at night,
two sprigs of bracken, glut with vernal sap,
pop rampant in their pullulating might -
I’ll pluck them, and I’ll squelch them in my lap.
I wonder if you wake up in the night
to ponder, in a meditative mood,
how much my kneading fingers could excite
you to display your secret aptitudes.
I’d nibble you, voluptuous and nude,
until the ripples of your belly ran
like tremors on a silver sea, when viewed
from any windless prominence of land.
I’d have you upturned, and your breath would pant
as I infused the glow of anthracite
to sate your palpitating womb’s demand -
full skewered, like a barbecued delight.
So long have you been absent from my bed
that I have forfeited the taste of thee
within my testicles. I want you spread,
recumbent, tethered sacrificially.
Be open to my lust. Respond to me
by gripping me within your gaping thighs,
that I may thrust you to eternity,
retrieving both of us - immortalised.
Come not to greet me in demure disguise,
but as a double piglet, to be fed
at both extremities, with gasping sighs,
and every trace of inhibition shed.
I see you on my couch, with legs apart,
your pussy preening in my avid gaze.
I knead it gently with a potter’s art
caressing it and, slowly, it obeys.
A fuchsia bud, responsive to the rays
of summer, swells, and in a moment pops,
so that the petals open in a blaze,
all pink, like icing in the pastry-shops.
And as my tongue intrudes, the vulva throbs;
a scented feel of litchi it imparts.
I rise, and then it wiggles like the gobs
of large anemones, when fish depart.
My shadow moves across your pallid thighs;
and now that they await agape for this,
I prod those lips till they are sensitised,
and gouge my organ in their orifice.
The mistral moaning in a state of bliss
will sound as silence by comparison
to all the ecstasy within your kiss -
a frenzy wafted from the Amazon.
And when the spasmic gushing all is done,
you’ll turn to me with delicate surprise,
in sensual whisper, to make comment on
those wasted weeks ere we were harmonised.