R A Ruadh

To the city

my hair carried you

to the city

the sultry fragrance of

the olive oil we

shared on our bodies

salt tang of your sweat

the red dirt of the farm in your skin

with a faint trace of tomato vine

My hair carried you

to the city

recording the journey

trekked across your chest and further

when you led me by the hand

tangled with my lips and tongue

as I tasted and teased you

while testing my own arousal

My hair carried you

to the city

I wrapped my face inhaling you

so deeply that I would remember

under the noise and chaos

how to remain soft and embracing

of your exploratory penetrations

nailing my body to the floor

My hair carried you

to the city

Penumbra

I am golden

My spirit goes sunlight walking

My heart ranges the savannah

Of your loving

Sweat prowls in whispers down my back

I am golden

My skin limned with morning light

My hair sleepy with feral nights

Of your loving

Our sounds lioning into the dark

I am golden

My eyes horizonless watching you

My body willows to the touch

Of your loving

We are the saffron butter moon rising

I am golden

Of your loving

Sunday Times

My fingertips intrepidly explore the

Delicate whorls of fine hair

Around the enticing centrifuge of your belly

Occasionally creeping north

To map out a taut nipple

All in secret under your shirt

While you read the New York Sunday Times

You hold me close

Absentmindedly and whole sensationed

Feeding your subliminal hunger

Through my tattoo at the base of my spine

Pressing and rubbing my skin

Into your desires

While you read the New York Sunday Times

It becomes too much distraction

Of a sudden you push my hand away

Concentrating your all on deathly depressive

Destructions and editorials on ethics

Racism, corruption, greed, and

Perhaps the odd sentence here and there about

Happiness

While you read the New York Sunday Times

I freeze my erotic instincts

Suspending operations and journeys

Willing even my wildish thoughts to a standstill

As seconds and minutes tick away

While you deepen your updates of the world’s sins

Sighing and fatigued by it all as surreptitiously

Your hand finds its way once again

To my tattoo under the covers

While you read the New York Sunday Times

Slowly carefully not to interrupt

The reported demise of the earth and all her inhabitants

My fingers retrace their steps and my elbow

Grazes the highlands of your shorts

Inspiring a digital holiday south to warmer climes

While your breathing slows and heartbeat rises and

The longing urgency of your tattoo upon mine presses harder

As you abandon the New York Sunday Times