Sweet Wine

Lips like mine,

soft, tender,

entwined we are

as we paint

each other

with our fingertips.

How luxurious it is,

breast to breast,

such gentle power

we share,

as we take each other

higher,

Oh,

the scent of you,

the way you know my

body,

like your own,

How hard we hold

and grip

and want,

compelled by the

beauty of it.

Dwellers

How can they not see you,

transforming the shadows

into lairs of opaque

trepidation,

driving even the

crawling night creatures

into the light cast

from a lonely lamp,

patient, you wait,

all of you,

never needing time,

you have no use for it,

not making a sound

when others can’t see you

as they pass by,

nervously looking back

at nothing.

Invocation of Bromios

It is under your strong hands

Bromissimo,

that I shudder, exalted,

head thrust back upon

your shoulder,

as you hold me

pinned tightly to your chest

our breath united

in a dance of silent yearning,

beginning as the moon rises,

her light intoxicating the

shadows that she casts.

Your hands play me

like the song

that you sing

huskily for my ears only,

strumming me deftly,

rising and falling in your

sweet serenade.

Your language is

sensation,

I see behind my

darkened eyes

the birth of mountains,

heaving and rocking

in great rising pitches,

landing spent

upon the landscape.

O, Bromissimo,

sing to me your song

of fauns,

cloven hooves

and horned heads

tossed in ecstatic defiance,

gifts of passion offered

like luscious fruits

ripened in the autumn sun,

dripping their sweet juices down

my chin.

Devour me with your

virile essence,

for you release me

upon the wind,

so that I might

ride the waves of

eternal bliss

if only for this moment,

wild, creature of the night,

unbridled fury,

my chanting is the rhythm

to your song,

as I become one with

the waters,

shimmering moonlight,

midnight dew.

The Priestess II

And She told me,

even the hottest and brightest of suns set,

but the blackness of the female

is infinite in the Universe,

it is the body,

through which all life is born,

and into which all life returns

upon death.

Why else would they seek it

like no other thing,

to control it,

to destroy it,

to hold it dearly,

close, with passion.

They live for it, they die for it,

they want it for themselves

and no one else,

that is the power we,

the female,

hold over all.

The strongest man will

fold under the tender

caress of a woman’s hand.

What else makes him stand

stiff and full of vital power

and fall limp and spent

within our embrace,

all the while yielding

within us,

dying and being reborn

again and again,

while we art continuous.

This is the strength,

unshakeable, undiminished,

for it is the blackness of the night sky

that beholds the shining stars,

and when they burn out and grow dim,

the night sky will hold them still.

Unapologetically Woman

My lips yield knowingly to your

pressing stare,

silken gown enshrining me

in its shimmering folds,

I’ll wear no veil,

my hair flowing

like rain down

my supple back,

a mane of freedom,

not encased in the tomb

of their shame,

my eyes locked upon yours,

the palms of my hands, with

their long, slender fingers,

weave themselves over my

voluptuous form,

liking the feel of it,

not starved into the

shape of an adolescent male,

not hindered by the

cloak of their sin,

not hidden from view,

as if it were forbidden fruit

that they sneak a bite of

when no one is looking.

I am not the shed skin

of an evil serpent,

but the supple rhythm of

one coiled, watching,

mysterious in its forthright

stare,

deadly only if

deemed so by those

who fear it,

wrapped luxuriously around those

who understand,

or at least who

seek to.

The Priestess

And She taught me,

“Ride the beast

well, my daughter.

The way only we can,

yoke him, grab his powerful

mouth,

and under your grasping

loins,

he will yield,

as only the most powerful,

the most virile,

the most exceptional

can.

For within you blooms

the absolute power

and fortitude,

given only to the most

beautiful

of soft petaled flowers,

making the most

furtive bees

dizzy in the wake of

intoxicating perfume.

It is the greatest of

mysteries,

and the secret they

have sought to render

mute,

only they also knew

one day we

would return.

Not as brides, or servants,

or chattel,

but as warriors,

born to set the world

anew.”

The Spirit of the Obstreperous Patriarch

I create a crisis

in your blood soaked eyes,

never wavering before you,

though you seek to daunt me,

like so many before,

you press in,

futile,

yet louder than

the roar of an

obsessed hurricane,

pounding your titanic waves

upon what you hope are

my brittle shores,

only to find a yielding

resistance,

a softness that absorbs the

shock like a

cancer that drinks

radiation in the heat

of the summer sun.

Take heed, my giant

teeth gnasher,

for you spend your

strength in vain.

You will have to prey

upon another,

as I have better

things to do,

than suffer in your

tired war.