These are the Secrets on my Pillow: Part 2

...Luca sighs and buries his nose into my neck. Such a soft mouth, such sweet breath tickeling the fuzz on my skin. I let my fingers move down his shirt, slip between two metal snaps, and pop them open to reach the fiery skin of his chest. My hands have a will of their own, circling around and around until he can stand it no longer and pushes my hand down. I rub hard, then squeeze. He moans some more and nibbles some more at my ear and whispers all hot and wonderful in Italian.

In the dim light I see the head of his cock peep out from the top of his pants. A drip of semen glistens and I touch it with the tip of my finger. Tap tap, and then I begin to swirl the sticky liquid around the nub of his rod. Two of his fingers dive into my depths, pull out, and dive in again, pushing me up against the back of my seat. I'm about to cry out. He claps a hand to my mouth just in time, muffling my groan.

A timid tap on my shoulder. I start, stunned out of my reverie. I am sweating. I look at my watch and see that two hours have gone by. I am being asked to return my seat to its original upright position. We are preparing for landing...................................

Part 3...

Charm

We can never go home
We no longer have one
I'll help you carry the load
I'll carry you in my arms
The kiss of the snow


The crescent moon above us
Our blood is cold
And we're alone
But I'm alone with you


Help me to carry the fire
We will keep it alight together
Help me to carry the fire
It will light our way forever


If I say shut your eyes
If I say look away
Bury your face in my shoulder
Think of a birthday


The things you put in your head
They will stay here forever

Why Men Cheat

Contemplation, lack of dedication, quick penetration,


Too much information about other women's sensations,

Flirtation, not man enough to commit to masturbation

To avoid the temptation,

Lack of conversation, causing frustration,

Navigation to another female who's a poor imitation.

The lies, the suspense when you cheat,

Deceit,

The finesse, her caress,

Taking your woman's kindness for weakness.

Lack of trust, the lust,

The attraction,

Fantasies about taking action,

The plight, causing arguments leading to fights,

So you can try to sneak out another night.

The misconception of your woman's perception,

She's been aware of his ways since the inception

But didn't want to face the rejection

And as she stares at her reflection,

She realizes why men cheat,

There is no exception.





"Love him or leave him but, never feel like you need him".

Panic

I am Going into Serious Meltdown mode................


I sit on my bathroom floor at quarter to Eleven
Panic Attack sets in after my Warm shower
As i listen on Western Ave to the Ambulance go by
I welcome Joy
because i am not the one in it.

My heart is Dying
My lungs collapsing
My Heart Racing

Not one word can save me now
My mind goes blank
for every thought that fires my Attack
is You

I need to Erase this
Erase the You
Im so sorry Sir,
I can not do this anymore

Please
Save me from all this Pain

Deep Breath sets in
Releases the Anger
Release the Pain
Release the Fear
Release
comes tears.............

All or nothing

Strike me Dead if I make this same Mistake Twice

How should I know? The enormous wheels of will

Drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet.

Night was void arms and you a phantom still,

And day your far light swaying down the street.

As never fool for love, I starved for you;

My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see.

Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view,

And your remembered smell most agony.



Love wakens love! I felt your hot wrist shiver

And suddenly the mad victory I planned

Flashed real, in your burning bending head...

My conqueror’s blood was cool as a deep river

In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand

Quieter than a dead man on a bed.

Sex...

Sex



by Michael Ryan










After the earth finally touches the sun,


and the long explosion stops suddenly


like a heart run down,


the world might seem white and quiet


to something that watches it in the sky at night,


so something might feel small,


and feel nearly human pain.






But it won't happen again:


the long nights wasted alone, what's done


in doorways in the dark by the young,


and what could have been for some.


Think of all the lovers and the friends!


Who does not gather his portion of them


to himself. at least in his mind?






Sex eased through everyone,


even when slipping into death


as into a beloved's skin,


and prying out again to find


the body slumped, muscles slack.


and bones begun their turn to dust.


Then no one minds when one lover


holds another, like an unloaded sack.






But the truth enters at the end of life.


It enters like oxygen into every cell


and the madness it feeds there in some


is only a lucid metaphor


for something long burned to nothing,


like a star.






How do you get under your desire?


How do you peel away each desire


like ponderous clothes, one at a time,


until what's underneath is known?


We knew genitals as small things


and we were ashamed they led us around,


even if the hill where we'd lie down


was the same hill the universe unfolded upon


all night, as we watched the stars,


when for once our breathing seemed to blend.














Each time, from that sweet pressure


of hands, or the great relief of the mouth,


a person can be led out of himself


Isn't it lonely in the body?


The myth says we ooze about as spirits


until there's a body made to take us,


and only flesh is created by sex.


That's why we enter sex so relentlessly,


toward the pleasure that comes


when we push down far enough


to nudge the spirit rising to release,


and the pleasure is pleasure of pure spirit,


for a moment all together again.


So sex returns us to beginning, and we moan.














Pure sex becomes specific and concrete


in a caress of breast or slope of waist:


it flies through itself like light, it sails


on nothing like a wing, when someone's there


to be touched, when there's nothing wrong.






So the actual is touched in sex,


like a breast through cloth: the actual


rising plump and real, the mind


darting about it like a tongue.


This is where I wanted to be all along:


up in the world, in touch with myself. . .






Sex, invisible priestess of a good God,


I think without you I might just spin off.


I know there's no keeping you close,


as you flick by underneath a sentence


on a train, or transform the last thought


of an old nun, or withdraw for one moment alone.


Who tells you what to do or ties you down!






I'd give up the rest to suck your dark lips.


I'd give up the rest to fix you exact


in the universe, at the wildest edge


where there's no such thing as shape.






What a shame I am, if reaching the right person


in a dim room, sex holds itself apart


from us like an angel in an afterlife,


and, with the ideas no one has even dreamed,


it wails its odd music for pure mind.














After there's nothing,


after the big blow-up of the whole shebang,


what voice from what throat


will tell me who I am? Each throat


on which I would have quietly set my lips


will be ripped like a cheap sleeve


or blown apart like the stopped-up


barrel of a gun. What was inside them


all the time I wanted always


to rest my mouth upon?






I thought most everything


stuck dartlike in the half-dome of my brain,


and hung there like fake stars in a planetarium.


It's true that things there changed into names,


that even the people I loved were a bunch of signs,


so I felt most often alone.


This is a way to stay alive and nothing to bemoan.


We know the first time we extend an arm:


the body reaches so far for so long.


We grow and love to grow, then stop, then lie down.






I wanted to bear inside me this tender outcome.


I wanted to know if it made sex happen:


does it show up surely in touch and talk?


does it leak from the mind, as heat from the skin?


I wanted my touching intelligent, like a beautiful song.

The Maintenance Man

Do you remember the machine the way I do?
How it drives towards the horizon
beyond the vanishing point that I can't even make out
The machine that struggles to quench its thirst with sips from a
smoldering sun,
a copper pendant that dangles between its breast.
Wire weave spider webs over the open mouths of pipes
that run and dive around landscapes
clouded by plumes of gray smoke that threaten to sew shut our
eyes,
that stretch for miles and miles of titanium highway.

When he descends on us,
all the parts of the machine,
we do not move.
Not a single red bulb lights.
There is no siren's song
to distract him from this job at hand.

Everywhere
there is a sound
of screws that shake in their bolts,
the low whir of belts that caress the wheel,
valves that warm hands over spark plug crackles.

He traces  his fingertips over our iron flesh,
run them in and out of spokes.
There is no Love in his smile like the way
I've seen chain tenderly spoon gear.
There is no hatred in his Eyes
like the dull pummel of piston's fist against cylinder.

I have watched him forever
as he sails his very small boat astern of mine
not because I am the best sailor,
but because I don't know how to describe the wind.
I am no thief in clever disguise,
just another component with no capacity for uprise.

He laughs at me,
and begins
to strip me of my plastic coating,
peels back my skin
so nicely
that I can see the reflection of muscle and sinew across his pupil,
methodically works his way over my body
and listens to every chunk of flesh
slap against the ground.
There is no pain
when he splits my face down the middle
and cracks open my cheek.

He leaves me naked,
unnamed,
a well-oiled machine,
just the inner systems of a body
happy to be rid of her plastic coating,
and hands me this memory perdu to nestle somewhere between
unconscious creation and deja vu.

Then he ask me something I've heard before.
"Which one?"
he says.
"Choose."
And he points out
lion's roar, rainbow trout, cicada,
farmer's crop, hot wind, mouthful of cold water.

But there's something in his voice
that I seem to understand from before
that in choice there is chance,
and though he says
no one has ever succeeded
I take my chances,
and choose
human.