kittygory
I know your body
is as blind as a newborn puppy.
I know when I touch you,
you’ll rise against my hand
seeking pressure like milk,
and I want that, I love that
roll of your belly down
that brings your milk teeth hips,
your blind, seeking wet mouth hips,
up into my hand, up into my own mouth,
up into my own blind body.
I love that like aces, your sightless,
open skin, your newborn skin…
come here… come here and feed
on my need to touch you.

Peregrine (via youreyesblazeout)

Because sexetry…sizzling sexetry!  *blows on my fingers*  :)

my-ear-trumpet
theoceanspectre:

Robert Graves, Goodbye to All That (Penguin Classics, 2000, p. 18).
[Little boy Graves on young man Wodehouse: a lovely, tiny snippet of memory, like so many other moments briefly touched on in the early chapters of Goodbye. Graves’s one–liners, too — while not so ‘lovely’ — are often succinctly, acidly amusing: “Munich we found sinister”, “‘Those poor Italians in your grandfather’s brick yard used to burn their polenta on purpose, sometimes, just for a change of flavour’”, and, “I don’t like thinking of Wimbledon”. (This is the second book in my First World War–related reading series, “Goodbye to All That.”)]

theoceanspectre:

Robert Graves, Goodbye to All That (Penguin Classics, 2000, p. 18).

[Little boy Graves on young man Wodehouse: a lovely, tiny snippet of memory, like so many other moments briefly touched on in the early chapters of Goodbye. Graves’s one–liners, too — while not so ‘lovely’ — are often succinctly, acidly amusing: “Munich we found sinister”, “‘Those poor Italians in your grandfather’s brick yard used to burn their polenta on purpose, sometimes, just for a change of flavour’”, and, “I don’t like thinking of Wimbledon”. (This is the second book in my First World War–related reading series, “Goodbye to All That.”)]

metaphorformetaphor

metaphorformetaphor:

Midnight, the moon, and self-forgetfulness
The past and present are faded, afar;
A supplication shapes the stillness
Dimmed is the sad assembly of stars.
Silence wraps all, the sound of a cascade,
An ecstasy all things seems to pervade
It is as if life were part of a dream
The whole wide world but…

lifeinpoetry

A full moon, the night above the two of us,
I began to cry and you were laughing.
Your disdain was a god; my complaints
were instants of time and doves in a chain.

The night beneath us. A crystal of pain,
you cried deep into the distance.
My sorrow gathered its suffering
above your fragile heart of sand.

Dawn united us on the bed,
mouths pressed to the freezing cold spurt
of endless blood spilling out.

And the sun entered through closed shutters
and the coral of light opened its branches
over my shrouded heart

Federico García Lorca, from Sonnets of Dark Love  (via oiseauperdu)
poetictouch

poetictouch:

I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Read by Julie Harris

I taste a liquor never brewed —
From Tankards scooped in Pearl —
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air — am I —
And Debauchee of Dew —
Reeling — thro endless summer days —
From inns of Molten Blue —

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door —
When Butterflies — renounce their “drams” —
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats —
And Saints — to windows run —
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the — Sun —