The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Angeline]

Sight: trees
Scent: pineapple
Sound: air conditioner hum
Touch: typewriter keys
Taste: margarita

Everything I Said Is True

My office was on the ninth floor
of what once was Trenton's premier hotel,
The Capital Plaza. No really. The top floor
had a revolving restaurant called The Top
O Trenton. I once saw The Amazing Kreskin
make bacon and eggs disappear there.

I met James Brown in the elevator
and said Hi James. How's the Flames?
because I can be an idiot, but fortunately
he was kind.

I couldn't see but three spindly city trees
from my window, not that I looked much.
Most days I was glued to the phone
or tippy tap tapping on my IBM Selectric,
listening to the window unit drone.

That was before we got the first computers,
which were made by Wang. Every morning
my secretary asked if I turned the Wang on
and we'd look at each other and giggle.

In summer we'd go to the lobby bar,
which smelt of cherries and pineapples.
I'd drink a frozen pineapple margarita
because I only like booze that tastes
like a Slurpee and even then not much tbh.

One winter morning the whole office
floor was empty. I turned on the Wang
and a guy in a moonsuit walked in.

Get out now! This place is full of asbestos,
and I never went there again.



Sight: dolls
Sound: siren
Smell: burning rubber
Taste: meat
Touch: glass

 

[Piscator]

Originally posted by Angeline

Sight: dolls
Sound: siren
Smell: burning rubber
Taste: meat
Touch: glass

Fading Lilacs

We ladies in long-term care
all smile like porcelain dolls
as we play hangman with
the aide whose name I never
remember, but she always gets
mad when I call out dystopia.

Except for Thelma, who can
never sit still and walks in
circles round the seventh floor
always trying the door that never
opens which is just as well for
there is only one way out.

Long ago men gathered around
us, drawn to our full bosoms
and titillating innuendos like
sailors to Ulysses' sirens only
to wreck in monotonous monogamy.
But Burt’s the only man here and
he just sits and drools in his wheelchair
and rumour has it that he was a
homosexual, and he’s no longer with us
anymore, anyway.

It’s more long-term storage than
care and the meat here is cooked to
death and smells of a tire fire but tastes
like oiled cardboard and I don’t eat
much anyway.

So I stand with my nose pressed
against the window, looking out
through the bars at the fading
lilacs, almost remembering
whatever, anyway.



Sight: an old tree
Sound: running water
Smell: chrysanthemum
Taste: non-menthol cigarette
Touch: the sharp edge of a knife

 

[Angeline]

Sight: an old tree
Sound: running water
Smell: chrysanthemum
Taste: non-menthol cigarette
Touch: the sharp edge of a knife

Requiem For A Life I Used To Have

I miss the dogwood tree
that lives in my childhood
front yard. We planted a sapling
on Mother's Day and it poured hard
that night, rain drumming
on the roof. I was sure that baby
would drown, but it took a long drink
and over time grew tall and stately,
branches uplifted and elegant.
Will I ever see it again?

I shouldn't miss smoking, but oh I do.
I've thrilled settling in to write
with a box of Nat Sherman Fantasias
by my side. They're strong and colorful,
gold tipped, an affected but satisfying vice
I once cultivated. Now I cough,
my very breathing compromised,
but how delightful it felt to be
so industrious, puffing away
like a little word engine.

So many things are no more for me:
hikes along Blue Ridge trails,
our planters in slanting autumn
sunlight, bright with clean-scented verbena
and white chrysanthemum; long meditative
afternoons in my kitchen, chef's knife chopping
vegetables for soup or slicing cheese
for pizza, you slipping behind me
to nuzzle my neck and whisper
us into the bedroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Sight: Unmade bed
Sound: Laughter
Scent: Apples
Taste: Something salty
Touch: Something bumpy

 

[champagne1982]

Sight: Unmade bed
Sound: Laughter
Scent: Apples
Taste: Something salty
Touch: Something bumpy

Saturday In The Married Quarters

Oh, those mornings made me smile.
When childish shouts of -
"Juice! Juice!" drew a gentle
chuckle from you; the smell
of pressed and bruised apples
would waft down the hall.
The salt tingle on my tongue
from licking my upper lip dry
of the sweat of laundry day
made me thirst for a draught
of the same apple juice poured
for the baby. First business
first though. Bend over
and rescue the rubber dog toy,
it's bumps and little plastic
cilia filling the tips of my
fingers with interesting
tactile energy while I straighten,
turn and smooth the linens
waiting to dress the bed.

Sight: water from a hose
Sound: drips into a puddle
Scent: mildew
Taste: spearmint
Touch: cold

 

[Remec]

Sight: water from a hose
Sound: drips into a puddle
Scent: mildew
Taste: spearmint
Touch: cold

Summer Water Wars

I heard the shrieks and
laughter while I sought
the reason something was
dripping just enough to
wake me from
my hammock,

I found the puddle, the leak
that had caused it being
a not-quite-closed spigot
to the garden hose,
and shut it off just as
a gaggle of drenched
troublemakers
came around the house
armed with empty balloons
and super soakers,

With a laugh, I stepped aside
to let them refill,
avoiding their clammy touch
and the slightly musty smell
of already mildewing
sneakers,
popped a stick of gum in
my mouth and
let the soothing spearmint
calm me back down
and get me ready
to return to
my
hammock.



sight: guts
scent: something familiar
sound: popping
touch: ground
taste: defeat

 

[Angeline]

sight: guts
scent: something familiar
sound: popping
touch: ground
taste: defeat

The Storm Before The Calm

I was sick that day
you and Jimmy fished Lakeside.
God knows I wouldn't eat those mutants
you cleaned in our driveway,
slimy guts glistening in the suburban sun.
The sight made me puke and I hosed
off the ground, trying to get that fishy stench
away from me.

I ran in the house, showered
and doused myself with Cabochard
to feel sweet and flowery, to feel elegant,
to remember who I once was
because face it:

Your enmity made me forget the me I loved.
You taught me how to hate myself.
All my magic, confidence, creativity
drained into the gray maw
of our disaster and even then I tried
until my will evaporated

and I was done with your threats
and blank fury, sitting on our bed
with your guns, your mouth full of bitterness
and defeat but no will to compromise,
sitting there clicking the safety
on and off, on and off, predicting
the dark future that would surely come
to pass if I left you.

Go on, I told you before I left.
Blow your fucking head off.

I don't care anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sight: city at night
Sound: drums
Scent: skin
Taste: something sweet
Touch: something sculpted

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: drink bottle
Sound: something falling over
scent: something new
Touch: Drift wood
Taste: sour

Two footsteps into the bicycle shop
two lung-fulls of shiny new rubber later
life fast-rewinds back

Harper's Hole
the illusion of a day by the beach
a if-life-gave-you-lemon-trees-...-boy could buy
with the brand new dust-road-rider on display
sitting ten yards above Harper's deep end
the bright red metallic paint reflects
a million suns in the eyes of a dozens sons
with moms and dads that won't see the sea too

My Pride
with pedals
and a color-matched drinking bottle
my eyes focus on while a big gulp
of the horrible unsweet lemon liquid,
the young entrepreneur sold
all summer long to any willing -
ten cents for the sidewalk toll troll! -
splashes down the show off throat
that just praised the latest wonder
of human made techno...
slipping, sliding, tumbling, hitting and
Splashing
down into Harper's hungry throat...

Hope?
Maybe the first inch of the big leap
but everyone knew this was safe ground
no one ever hit bottom...

Back in the bicycle shop
the scar from then pulses
where a splinter dug in
some mountain tree washed down
in the Great 1873 Flood
resting there for a million tears
whoever dared to go so deep...

Maybe the mermaid boy
on Harper's ground
still rides the red wonder
dreaming about a day by the beach.

Would like to rub that memory away
but there's a bag of dimes to hold on
for another boy's Pride
with pedals.

Sight: morning
Sound: trees
Scent: breakfast
Taste: something unexpected
Touch: hot

 

[Piscator]

Sight: morning
Sound: trees
Scent: breakfast
Taste: something unexpected
Touch: hot

The sun
rises too soon
as summer solstice approaches
noisy grackles in fence line cedars
feed their needy nestlings insect delights
a warm breeze stirs bedroom curtains
she moans as velvet tongue
laps cream filled
pussy
​

Sight: light reflecting off water
Sound: glass harmonica
Scent: jasmine tea
Taste: sour
Touch: sticky

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Frivolous Vigil

Sight: light reflecting off water
Sound: glass harmonica
Scent: jasmine tea
Taste: sour
Touch: sticky

Thirstily watching
the geriatric candle
wolfing down its wick.

Its last gulps recorded
by the Black Dragon Pearls
dancing in your tumbler
to your obscene finger play
on the glassy rim
that quivers in ethereous frequencies
before it dives inside what shared your name
sharing it with your pearl
for my nose to find
when we mourn the light
gone in a black night.

The last gasps of illumination
accompany the slightly viscous eau du joie
glueing thumb to trigger finger
that brings the acetous essence to my lips
sharper than a green apple
but that literally drips with a message
time to drink from your Jasmine

Sight: Spaghetti strap
Sound: laughter
Scent: Cherry/Sherry (whatever you like better, or both)
Taste: sweet
Touch: soft

 

[Angeline]

Sight: Spaghetti strap
Sound: laughter
Scent: Cherry/Sherry (whatever you like better, or both)
Taste: sweet
Touch: soft

My Night of Golden Memories

The day felt hinky
as sunlight slid through the afternoon.
I watched from the tinted gold windows
in La Petite Femme as my hair was teased
and sculpted to a towering sensation
involving sausage curls and orange bows.

I looked like a cross between Shirley Temple
and Bozo the Clown.
I could barely see through the mascara.
Perhaps those blue rinse ladies
were laughing at me. I'd laugh
if I didn't feel like screaming
and/or running away.

But Skippy Bukowski's eyes shone
when he saw me in my brocade gown
with its peachy spaghetti straps. I wasn't
so sure about Skippy, but my name
was all over his Spanish II workbook
and I, shy and bookish, was dazzled
by his devotion and how soft
his touch when he pinned my corsage.

We danced to We've Only Just Begun,
in a slow careful box step and looser,
wilder to Hang On Sloopy.
That's when my sausage curls
gave up the ghost.

Afterward, at the Hawaiian Cottage, we drank
from pineapples filled with sweet juice
that tasted like cherries and Tropical Tang.
On our way home Skippy turned off the Beatles
in favor of the Four Seasons and I knew
we were not meant to be.

It took hours to brush all that spray
out of my hair. "Never again," I told Barb
and put Eight Miles High
on the turntable.


Sight: wild animal
Sound: footsteps
Smell: toasted marshmallow
Taste: water
Touch: fur

 

[butters]

Sight: wild animal
Sound: footsteps
Smell: toasted marshmallow
Taste: water
Touch: fur




you prowl the smooth-worn hallway boards–
midnight's animal
whose breathy kisses swift betray
the sticky fate of mallow'd prey

yet know to taste the moonlit rain
to lingerlick your naked flesh
and stroke your darkly dripping fur
does more to rouse mine inner, wildling cur




Sight: thistles
Sound: burglar alarm
Smell: pinesol
Taste: cottoncandy
Touch: prod

 

[Angeline]

Sight: thistles
Sound: burglar alarm
Smell: pinesol
Taste: cottoncandy
Touch: prod

Housewarming

Our footsteps echoed
in the empty rooms. We'd arrived
before the moving truck,
road weary but glad to be
here in rooms redolent of Pinesol:
clean shining floors, now in the house
we'd dreamed of from so far north.

It was chilly for May.
When I shut the kitchen window
I saw a towhee with a thistle
in its beak and thought how we both
were making nests this day.

You turned on the gas fireplace
and we spread a blanket
from the car next to its warmth.

Your bubble gum kisses were sweet
like cotton candy. Our tongue tips
touched and danced, and I lost my thoughts
of fairgrounds and calliopes to the heat
of the room and you, to the soft liquid
ache in me and your hot hard cock
prodding my thigh, then slipping inside.
Oh god how I gripped at you, we were lost
in the moans and murmurs, in pure lust

until the whine of our car alarm broke
through our passion-- and thank god--
it went off right after we did
because that damn truck arrived
five minutes later, but by then
we were clothed and combed,
the blanket folded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Sight: UFO
Sound: Horn
Smell: Roasted Nuts
Taste: Coffee
Touch: Bubbles

 

[Tzara]

Sight: UFO
Sound: Horn
Smell: Roasted Nuts
Taste: Coffee
Touch: Bubbles

Case Report 2021:05:31, Valdosta, GA

I spread the mixed nuts
across a cookie sheet
and slid them into the oven to warm,

because you like them that way,
and I wanted to tease you
with their smell

as you slumped, naked
in the tub, sweeping bubbles
and froth idly

as I tried to spy your nipples
buried in the foam.
When our dickhead neighbor Jerry

"accidentally" set off his car alarm
(I swear the bastard knows
whenever you've teased me

into an erection),
I went out on the deck to flip him off
and just caught

the green glowing Chiclet hovering
over my vanishing Mini Cooper, fading
away in, like, some kind of ray.

After I'd finally got you out of the tub,
and left my imprint
on or in your clean, fresh. . . well

I thought coffee was called for as I began
to fill out the claim form,
hoping "stolen" didn't clash too much

with "UFO' or "UAP"
or maybe just "unknown."


Sight: open area
Sound: Music in the distance
Smell: Freshly mown grass
Taste: Bourbon or some other distilled spirit
Touch: Leather, as in a book binding or a riding crop

 

[29wordsforsnow]

a tame one

Sight: open area
Sound: Music in the distance
Smell: Freshly mown grass
Taste: Bourbon or some other distilled spirit
Touch: Leather, as in a book binding or a riding crop

----
apologies for...well, you'll see
----

Another sunny Saturday
on the grounds of Monsieur d'Frai

Writing for Grand Jardin
so exciting, so exhilarant
Madame Rousseau returned, quite absent
"I beg your pardon."

Freshly trimmed with vivid juices
her bright blue eyes slightly crossed
Madame seemed quite a little lost
on the lawn before the well grown spruces.

"Just said sorry, my dear, I kept you waiting.
The library, again, I fear, kept me busy,
sorting alphabetically is such a tizzy.
Your visit made it quite complicating."

Madame, hearing wise slightly impaired
by the grass shaving's disorienting
sound she understood 'complimenting'
smiled at him, who was, of course, well prepared.

Finally, the turf tractor quit
and as she purred, "Do I disturb?"
it made him turn on the sappy curb
earlobe-close to be clearly heard, "Well, you did."

Through the doors of his collection room
escaped flocks of strings and winds
surrounding the pair, browsing their skins
and the strong male's perfume marked her doom.

Her body usually never failed
but to Saint-Saëns' carneval
each single limb, not one, but all
quivered as he got her ponytailed.

A hint of Armagnac breeze
stirring her blooming senses
as he was taking chances
harnessing his summer squeeze.

Monsieur, fastening loose leather latches,
"You don't mind me talking,
while you do some proper walking,
do you?" staring at the well cut patches.

Another sunny Saturday,
grazing Horses d'Frai.

----

Sight: red fingernails
Sound: La Traviata
Scent: old paper
Taste: herb (surprise us)
Touch: greased hair

 

[Angeline]

Sight: red fingernails
Sound: La Traviata
Scent: old paper
Taste: herb (surprise us)
Touch: greased hair

Violetta's Waltz

In early memory we walked
to visit the Reigers, friends
of my grandparents, Old World
Europeans. Their home was filled
with books. It smelt of old paper,
mysterious, dusty, appealing.

The Reigers were appealing.
They were old and fragile,
proper but warm and kind.
They drank hot tea in glasses
and Mr. Reiger held a sugar cube
in his teeth as he drank.
He'd play a recording, Toscanini
conducting La Traviata.
We'd listen to "Violetta's Waltz"
while Mr. Reiger conducted
with a cookie and grinned at me
with his stained, yellow teeth.

Mrs. Reiger had long red nails
and numbers on her arm. Once
Mr. Reiger wore short sleeves
with his suit and I saw
he had numbers, too.

On our walk home I darted
around Mama, picked wild chives
that grew in clumps and chewed
them. Mama picked a buttercup
and held it under my chin.
She saw yellow and said
that means I like butter.

That night after bath time,
while she greased my wet scalp
with Alberto VO 5, I asked
about the numbers
on the Reigers' arms.
Mama said she'd tell me
later, but she never did.

*******************

Sight: long legs
Sound: ice rattling
Scent: a specific perfume
Taste: brie and/or grapes
Touch: a musical instrument

 

[Tzara]

Sight: long legs
Sound: ice rattling
Scent: a specific perfume
Taste: brie and/or grapes
Touch: a musical instrument

Interruptus

Things were going swell.
I'd made it into her apartment
overlooking the harbor,
and I was standing near
the wall-sized window,
lightly stroking the keys
of her Steinway grand.
I could hear the rattle and rustle
of ice as she settled
that chilled bottle of Cristal
into its bucket, heard
the hum of the microwave
as she warmed the brie.

She still wore that black dress
the opera crowd had stared at,
hemline high enough
to show Pilates thighs
and long firm calves,
wrapped snug enough
around her hips
for any man's eyes.
When I leaned in for our kiss,
I caught her Gardénia scent
and suddenly couldn't
get my Senior Prom date,
Mary-Louise, out of my mind.

I searched for her on Facebook
when I got home,
though with no success.


Sight: A landmark
Sound: Distant music
Smell: Very fresh air
Taste: Something tart, slightly acid
Touch: Hair, or fur

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: A landmark
Sound: Distant music
Smell: Very fresh air
Taste: Something tart, slightly acid
Touch: Hair, or fur.

Ruins

It was a short drive
along the coast.
The ruins loomed into view
like a liner plowing through
a lush, green sea.

Leaving the confines of the car
the air felt super fresh
with a sea-tang and an
unexpected breeze tousled
our hair.

Somewhere in the distance
a blackbird sang his even-song,
acerbic and mournful and a
lump in my throat took me
by surprise.

Sight: A famous painting.
Sound: Laughter.
Smell: Hot bread.
Taste: Mango.
Touch: Something prickly or sharp.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Pre-dawn Pastiche

Sight: A famous painting.
Sound: Laughter.
Smell: Hot bread.
Taste: Mango.
Touch: Something prickly or sharp.

Impatience!
Another plastic cap breaks
finds it grave on the muddy sidewalk
and threatens to cut into bare soles, harmlessly

and as the mixer ball rings its attention concerto
through the city tropics of corrugated metal foliage
ticklish Concuela screams out, two storeys above
Miguel seems busy with his sweet torture, again
Ten, maybe twelve minutes
before half the block is awake

Rush!

The spray can whispers
pale green for the background
the aerosol subdueing the mouth-welming aroma
of one drop of ripe Mango caught in candy

Concuela on the edge
hysteria turning into primal urge soon
like Miguel's for the fresh bread
tempting odorous poltergeist bedeveling the dreamers
and a hungry hand that hits The Spot above

The brown already spent
the coming morning's bakery clientele will see
a more modern interpretation
lots of pink -
who needs that in the Favelas anyway?

Concuela ramps up
her distractive wake up call -
if everyone is dead on time each day
who would spend money on alarm clocks anyway

but something feels wrong
about the mouth

decibels amass
time to finish

Moana Lisa

sight: fire
sound: annoying ringtone
smell: sweaty sex
taste: umami
touch: soft

 

[Angeline]

Sight: fire
sound: annoying ringtone
smell: sweaty sex
taste: umami
touch: soft

Couple in the next room bound to win a prize
They've been going at it all night long
Well, I'm trying to get some sleep
But these motel walls are cheap
~ Lincoln Duncan, Paul Simon

Motel Six

Grilled cheese and mushroom soup
for dinner. We shared everything
then: soup, your favorite t-shirt, kisses
which that night tasted distinctly umami,

made a meaty, garlicky pong that seeped
even from my soft skin into the room.
We rolled together, sweating, and you
called it steakhouse fucking. Perfect.
I found an incense cone in my bag
and watched the flame take after I lit
that and our cigarettes. Sandalwood

and tobacco smoke wreathed the bed
and the desk clerk called, complaining
about noise and what were we smoking,
anyway? Fuck that guy in the next room!
I've had to hear his "God Bless America"
ringtone since Five this morning."

I banged down the phone and let you
wear the Vonnegut t-shirt this time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sight: wildlife (be specific)
Sound: crashing
Scent: something burning
Taste: lipstick or gloss
Feel: something cold

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: wildlife (be specific)
Sound: crashing
Scent: something burning
Taste: lipstick or gloss
Feel: something cold

memories wake my name, Sue!
of crackling fireplace of younger days
as the world sharpens on storm clouds eyes
in the rearview mirror and the sudden rivulet of red
running down onto my Iconic emboldened lips
that savor of my favorite handbag pastel
painted-on arousal for you, my dear
I expected here at the roadside
next to the moonlit trees
but it's not you I feel
my tongue instead
tastes blood
mine!
from a cut
on my forehead
hit by the steering wheel
when singed plastics squeeze
through air louvers, death implied
panic...finally outside, the shy roe deer
I'd locked eyes with until headlights' spell
told of looming danger as in old movie scripts
I saw it coming, transfixed, beauty smashed, dead
from steel kissing hard, dating here by surprise
it's the silly jewel case that holds my gaze
at enclosing cold fingers of once You!

Sight: toes
Sound: ocean
Scent: fish
Taste: salt
Feel: anything but a beach

 

[Angeline]

Sight: toes
Sound: ocean
Scent: fish
Taste: salt
Feel: anything but a beach


November in Maine is far too cold
to play footsie or even expose my toes
in strappy sandals, but I've done it
for you and painted my nails dark red
for later when I'll run a wanton foot

oh anywhere you'd like but now
I'll just tease you, let my shoe slip
off the heel and dangle a smooth leg
where you can see it.

Yes, Southwest Harbor is chilly outside,
but it's steamy in the lobster shack,
redolent of haddock stew, fried clams
and beer. The bay is slapping the docks,
sending foamy spray up the sidings:
the Atlantic is singing its winter song.

I wipe a dribble of butter from your chin
slip a finger in your mouth for you to lick
that rich salty slick off my skin, an act
we'll improvise on later in our cozy blue bed,
wrapped silky in arms, legs and quilts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sight: a mountain
Sound: an animal (be specific)
Scent: scented candle (name the scent)
Taste: apples
Touch: mattress

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: a mountain
Sound: an animal (be specific)
Scent: scented candle (name the scent)
Taste: apples
Touch: mattress

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mount. Rush. More

Not yet,
as we climb the back of those beasts
sturdy and elegant, them and you
myself accepts a hand to get on top.

Not yet,
as I'm welcomed by its neighing
and a doubtful look.
Is it the show you make
eating an apple like...?
Oh, that lucky Black Beauty
getting fed the core!

Not yet,
passing by history unchanged and your
"Boy, you got some booty today."
Laughter and four statesmanly looks,
"I always knew you're into brunettes."

Not yet,
when the saddle-clothes become our bed
and the tiny tent turns into a rose garden
sent from the lonely candle light.

Not yet,
my hands next to yours
on the thick cotton fabric
and the flame starts to flicker
in your laboured breath.

Now,
that the light has gone
and you misjugded our position,
ran your finger through my lips,
I can still taste the fruit you shared.
In this moment
at the monument
I hereby declare
"I love you more."

##########

sight: a wig
sound: Jazz
scent: cigars
taste: wine
touch: linen

 

[Winter_Fare]

sight: a wig
sound: Jazz
scent: cigars
taste: wine
touch: linen

_____________________

She is
Red wine
A sip
Heavy enough to turn your lip
South
Sour snap on the tip
Of your tongue

Softens the edge of it
Numbs the salt of it
Bitter

Rolling her shoulders
She sighs

- I hate jazz.

Slap bass
Her wig tilts in the haze of
Smoke and mirrors

- Are you drunk?

He is
Vermouth
Nonchalant cigar
Between crocodile teeth
Smiling smooth
Lingering

Hand upon hand upon hard-on
Touching under the table

Under the linen napkin
Stained


_____________________

sight: reflection
sound: running water
scent: wet paint
taste: blood
touch: cold metal

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: reflection
sound: running water
scent: wet paint
taste: blood
touch: cold metal

: : : : :

The key to this house -
once alive with love and laughter -
ice-covered like my forgotten heart
slips inside harshly,
while November rain
runs on
runs down
runs away
the drainspout gushing,
unlocking the door with its window
that caught a ghost of a man
in restless shades of grey.

Disturbed by a warm spot of orange
in the upper left corner
and the new sensation
of crying wet paint
finds a new home
up my nostrils
running along
running upstairs
running to a stop
in the middle of my life
tousled and spotty
her T-Shirt says
'Those aren't my eyes,'
her skew-whiff smile, 'Umm,'
and, finally, her ruby mouth
"I'm back."

I can still taste the spot
where my lips exploded
kissed, licked, bitten,
womanhandled
for hours.

: : : : :

sight: red
sound: metal
scent: smoke
taste: candy
touch: soft

 

[Piscator]

sight: red
sound: metal
scent: smoke
taste: can
touch: soft

Fumbling in the Dark

Alone together
in the dim amber light
behind the locked door
heavy metal cranked
to the max, your
hair smells of smoke.

Your velvet cock
pulses in my
mouth and your
cum tastes sweeter
than maple syrup.

sight: power lines on snowy ridge
sound: trees creaking in the wind
scent: ozone
taste: cough lozenge
touch: cold hands on naked back

_____________________________________________________
I doubled up on this in writing live to give the thread a bump