He Thought of Her


He thought of her
walking through a dense wood
or on a desserted shore.

Lost in her thoughts.
Happy to be away from him.

She should escape more with her thoughts.
Explore the tranquility of space.
Massage her inner soul.

Yet when she returns
He knows she will want him.
Need his assured touch
His mouth, his love.

He thought of her
walking through the garden
skipping through the door
no need of anymore solitude.

His room.
His bed.
He waits.
Silence before a storm of desire.


If I get Inspired


If I get inspired I’ll write you a short prose piece, something to turn you on, words to prepare you, excite you, entice you, To make you sigh, to fly to a higher place as fingers explore, seduce, slip inside you.

I want to initiate, facilitate, escalate your desire to make yourself breathless beyond your illicit dreams. Oh, to take you, lead you to a long perfect release.


Busy fingers find you, tease you, slip away. I wait for any movement, any slight inclination.

The pleasure rolls on, until it dissipates your need.

It was Always a Beautiful Thought

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It was always a beautiful thought

not something which could be caught or bought.

It was an essence, a Sensitivity she had taught

so that when their bodies were taut none of them fought.

It was always two for her, he scored nought.

Yet the closure he sought eluded him,

so he went home distraught, dreaming and wrought.

There would be no Sleep Now

There would be no sleep now as he remembered a sensual exchange, not too long ago, which had taken him to a higher place.

Her words had caressed him, excited him, driven him to a desire that burned.

He now lay in bed, remembered; wanted her desire to lead him again to a place where she could write her own words to entice, to create a new experience, driven by heart and desire.

A crystal clear image slipped into his mind. There would be no sleep now

The Wanderer

You’re a wanderer who doesn’t want to find the wilderness,                                                       you’re more likely to ramble into a room of a traveller;                                                                   a quiet one, one who listens to you.

No globetrotter who has lewd tales to tell will do for you;                                                               a literary wayfarer or a nomad who has found his home                                                               might reveal all you have to give.

No transient, one night stand, flash in the pan kind of man.                                                     Away with thee hiker, hobo, bum.                                                                                           Though you do need someone who will illicit fun.

You’re a wanderer                                                                                                                               but only in motion,                                                                                                                           your heart remains in one place.


You Say you want to Break Up

‘Break up’, you say you want to ‘break up’.                                                                                           I would fall apart, fall to pieces, become a                                                                               fragment in your story.                                                                                                                            Do not fracture my heart,                                                                                                             shatter my illusions or splinter my soul.

You say you want to break up.

Perhaps we could explode,                                                                                                                    blow up or blow ourselves apart;                                                                                                     better than letting it crumble,                                                                                                   deteriorate, decay, decompose at a slow, slow pace.

I don’t want to rot in your memory,                                                                                                 perish the thought, or collapse into                                                                                                                an emotional wreck.

You were such a wonderful degenerate in bed;                                                                                        I think we should teeter toward an                                                                                                                        informal bust up, rather then be smashed to smithereens.

I say I want to break up.