Wick and Flame

Not a promotion of lust, just an explanation
"Wick and Flame voice recording":http://vocaroo.com/i/s0Ib0ojOo9fW


In my head, I'm in your bed  It's a constant carnal bliss
Sliding, sucking, sweetness, starting with passioned kiss
Tumbling, reeling, rolling through every favored position
Just to touch you, see you, smell you is my only mission
I want to drink you up, eat you up, consume you to the core
Whether you call me lover, friend, slave or even filthy whore
Take me in, put me out, ravage or caress, it's all the same
All that counts is burning desire and you are wick and flame

8 pints down

"8 Pints Down Voice Recording":http://vocaroo.com/i/s0I7m7F8j5s9
Just so we're clear, I am not making these voice recordings to suggest how the poem should be read. I am in no way a professional actor or reader. It's just that I have become increasingly aware of the needs of blind persons, who, even when they can get proper readers, often experience headaches from using them.


You make me feel 8 pints down and, unfortunately, still breathing.
Why still breathing? Why not dead? The blood pools to the floor.
It drips out of wounds unseen, unheeded, unbelieved in and is away.
Yet here I stand, breathing, for no discernible reason. Must I continue?
Should I continue? Would it matter? I'd need 8 pints down to make it.
Drink them down, buoy me up, and once more into the breach, dear friend.

I could sleep ....

I could sleep, but, why? To sleep is to risk the horror of dreaming
When he creeps in to do mischief in mind and bed, body and bone
And, softly whispers of joys unnumbered, unmet, unfelt, unbelievetd
There is nothing there. It was and is, as always, just misty untruths
Dreamt up by loneliness, like refuse from the dying soul dripped out
So I lay awake, here, and let my mind wonder free, hoping for escape
It is a prison of lies, a gulag of romantic notions, in which it is locked
 A prison that no one but me can see; even the jailer does not see it
And he knows not of the imprisonment, nor the torture he has inflicted
To him it is a new day, with things to do and people to see or vice versa
It is me who suffers under his merciless wiles, and cannot be ever free
I could sleep but it would change nothing. It would be temporary blackness.
Life is black all day through, but, at least awake one can avoid the dreaming