a dream:
I am standing on the sea
folding the night in my pocket,
beholding you:
your skin stretched as canvas for the stars
the remaining sunlight splashing upon it,
innocence, coy smiles and linear lightning.

the two of us
sinking and rising,
wet then dry,
reaching then accepting,
nerves and light and rising wetness
falling drops
the gleam
the rising and falling tide.

so comes the night
like crippled claws crawling across the world
spreading out like a river without banks
wide and wider still
falling down
as your beauty is
searing the stars with shine.

the purple hue of your blush in shadow
I taste your skin like wine:
sweet bitter intoxicating smooth, you the
product of a vine in the
bright sunshine,
full of brilliance, supple curved soft,
my tongue is massaging the
budding grape
while my sculptor hands squeeze the
juice from you.

I am sculpting you
out of sublimation,
the clay between the strands of your hair:
moist, it forms the inside curves of
you, the deep and soft spots of
you, the places you reveal to me,
as if each inch of you were eden.

Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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