graveyard sex
i don't need oysters or rhinocerous horn
only you, naked
your pale back pressed flat against the marble
as my hands slowly trace the grooves of your chest.
a light fall of rain makes your skin slick,
the tips of my fingers sliding across your nipples,
meaty and erect in the brisk morning air.
blackbirds, the guardians of this place,
caw angrily at us from the nearby willow,
their tomb-back roost disturbed by our discarded clothes,
dampened by the rain and lust.
there is a strange sensation as my lips caress
the sordid flatness of your stomach,
my tongue tracing the lines of your abdominals,
the musky mix of rain and mausoleum and you
bringing me to my knees
or was that just the gentle pressure of your hands?
teh feathered sentries scatter from the trees
as sudden motion in this still place unnerves them,
as surely it only happens in instances such as this
and I watch them circling overhead angrily
since I find my back sliding throught the wet grass
while you bury yourself deep within me
as buried below the residents of this morbid city lay.
I think about them as you penetrate me,
wonder if this fierce display of life
somehow agitates their slumber
or even if they might get off on it
like you getting off in me,
if it makes them want to rise up to get a better look
to remember the flesh they'd left behind
the pleasures it can entertain under sweat and blood
and aftershave enticing them, tantalizing them,
making the graves release their white ghosts up into the sky,
as you release your white ghosts inside of me,
their moaning - or was that yours?
filling the emptiness of the air
with sound.
sashay.