Live Verse

Live Verse

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m with you,
I want to live it.
I want to finger every rhythm and rhyme,
and suckle you in couplet,
diving into your metaphor,
and thrusting out the meter,
in live verse.

To feel your soft poignancy,
the depths of your allegory tremble,
with each syllable that passes these lips,
slipping into you orally,
sliding down each auricle,
awakening the fires breach,
erupting inside you through speech.

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m with you,
I want you to live it,
be it, the poem on my tongue,
the rhythm and rhyme as you come, to me,
in heaving dripping whelps of desire,
sated on this linguists tongue of fire.

Rising in the tide of a poets lust,
moaning out the lines of each guttural thrust,
the flame, the fire, licking ever higher,
this penetrating hunger and need,
to reach down, and on your knees,
take this potency deep inside you,
and succulently feed.

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m in you,
I want to feel you squirm beneath it,
and shudder as I broach your inner sanctity,
entering your deepest intimacy,
sucking at the words on my lips
with full unbridled passion of a poets kiss.

Soaking your soul in a sopping mass,
of quivering ecstasy, screaming uncontrollably,
as the verse explodes inside of you.
Turning you over, stretching you out,
pounding your splayed defences,
surging through every unctuous doubt.

I don’t want to write poetry when your on me,
I want to live it, love it, lust for it,
watch it ride in rapture,
rising inside you, squeezing in a sopping tide,
until you shudder with the thunder of the verse,
and burst, gripping the transcendence in your sodden purse.

If I wrote you a poem with invisible ink,
that slipped upon the palette of your body,
through the feather quill guide of my tongue,
would it be any less memorable,
for having been written in flesh?

© Richard Michael Parker 2010