Thursday, February 07, 2013

If you were tickled by the rub of love.

If you were tickled by the rub of love.




When young men court virgins,
and all reason be lost to
them that are not alive,
of spirit to indulge in
passion, unbridled passion.
For love of all that
sloppy, drippy, dreamy stuff,
who wins, who learns,
who lays awake at night,
which unloved heart yearns ?




Golden the flow of arrogance,
a man alive, he spied her
pants, the chance to glance
upon the flesh of what is held.
A special type of fever,
only known the the giver
and at times, also
the receiver.




Once more my lover,
in heat filled days, we ran
along the banks in folly,
stalked love undone in autumn
on the fields of ripened corn,
set sail into light and dark,
one special day, one awesome morn'.




Who has not bet a dollar
to find the love of ages,
up on the mount of bitter olives,
and spurned advances,
whitened pages, seasoned by sages,
who clung to rages of ire.
Nothing stirred, no bird,
a cool wind blew, and blew,
who really knew the dew ?
To ripen love was always
here in wealth of life,
my lover smiled inside.




Cower not to bitterness, youth
is not often bereft,
like theft of vitality,
I wanted to see, you and me
unbridled by a roaming wood,
something kissed me,
where I stood, so damned good.




Helen was the veal of meat,
where I undid her blouse,
buttoned up so neat, so sweet.




And yet young virgin,
I have need to ask thee,
A summer ended in a mystery.
Would clouds have covered,
had life of why discovered,
or in the heat recovered, me...
To say at last,
would you be mine,
if you, were tickled
by the rub of love ?