“Memories of Us”…excerpt from Tuesday Suicide….

…Your hands are outstretched. Your glistening body, soft and tranquil, in the twilight. I sit here in this cushioned antique chair, fulfilling every cliché there is, smoking a joint, drinking neat Gin, yet all I crave, is another taste. Another embrace.Another touch of your skin. Can’t remember how it happened. Nor how, nor why; we allowed temptation to flirt with us again. I follow the light, as it dances down your body. I watch it roll over your curves, your legs, your arse, your thighs…I trace the light with my lips, you shudder in your sleep.
My half-mast cock is stirring. In my mind I’m reliving the encounter. All of our encounters rolling into one— Where does the dream end? Reality begin? You pushed up against the wall as I entered your apartment. Hand around my throat, biting my lip, the blood on your tongue ignites your rage. Swept up in the madness of it all, you tear off my shirt like it was on fire, your scent, your tongue, your body; the intoxication of your desire, you suck on my neck, drag your tongue across my face, floating as I feel your tongue and your lips, envelope my ear. Hands electric with frenzy, we didn’t undress we wrenched our clothing off one another. Both of us obsessed with flesh, with blood and sweat. stumbling to your room, darkened hall, the path we knew so well. Bodies entwining, breath becomes one.
Heart beats drive our rhythm; on my back, as you kiss down my neck, my chest .I feel your warm, wet tongue lapping up my sweat like a starving creature of the night.
I groan in wondrous delight. Arching back, your tongue travels down the treasure trail, your fingers, your teeth losing their way in my pubic hair. Your fingers wrapped around my balls, your hot wet tongue wrapped around my cock. I’m yours now. I am yours. But you’re still asleep… We had fought day and night, over everything and nothing. Just so pride would remain on my side, moral high ground with you. Do you remember the club? All those months ago? The pumping, jiving, jumping, driving rhythms of the night. That little pill on your tongue kissing in the sweating, heaving throng of the night. Surrounded by those creatures, surrounded by those self-inflicted voodoo dolls; wanna-be zombies and self-mocking vampires. Fucking you in the corner of the dance floor, my arse almost impaled my shot glasses on a shelf on the wall, your knee high boots and your short leather skirt, white tee glowing in the darkness. We fucked, as the DJ pumped the bass-line hard, dirty, fast; like a herd of stampeding Rhinos. I thrust hard and push you into the wall, you squeal and laugh, clawing at my back, biting my tongue. Your tongue on my ear, you gargle your commands; “Fuck me like a hurricane”. The animal inside, the roar, my hands almost ripping your arse cheeks apart, your legs locked around my hips.
Do you remember the train station?

Last service before dawn, wet and cold wintry night. Our desire devouring our sense of wrong and right. In the dark alcove—your black coat down to your arse. Wearing multiple layers all accessible as I lick and kiss down your neck.

Feeling your nipples grow taut as I tease them with my mouth, flicking each pinkish mound of flesh with my tongue, pinching them with my teeth sliding my fingernails down your sides, your goose pimply flesh blister with exaltation as I kiss and bite your skin.
Undoing the snap of your jeans and sliding them down your hips, I slide your panties down your legs; my mouth trailing down your belly, I lick inside your navel, you shudder shiver, electricity is palpable.
On that station, abandoned by modernism and life—even Rats and Junkies no longer linger in those squalid shadows. No warning. No foreplay. No kissing. You’re standing up floating, from the Mollys on your tongues dissolving with the vodka and all those shots—that turned Wednesday into Saturday three weeks ago…Still you’re floating—I expose your pink lips spread them with my fingers; touch your clit with the very tip of my tongue. Smelling your excitement you’re shivering from desire and the chill of the night. I had to taste it. The staccato tapping, touching, licking just the clit, just the clit—up and down.
Two strokes a second, my tongue dances to the rhythm of your heart pulsing through us.
Feeling it grow, sliding down to enter tasting you fully sucking your engorged lips back to clit.
Your hands on the back of my head, digging in your nails, pulling my hair squeezing my ears. I enter you, with three fingers. So tight. So wet licking, licking, licking finger probes your anus you shiver again, you try to protest…slowly till halfway feeling your contractions;
“MAKE ME CUM” you growl.
Your surrender to my tongue, my complete than you do my cock, with my tongue I control you.
My words. My voice. My desire. But, all we do is fuck….
All we do is fuck!
Can we go more than an hour before we’re shoving our tongues down each other’s throats?
Or tearing each other’s clothes off? These games we play….
Over and over and over again. All these fucking games we play. Bed. The kitchen table. The kitchen floor. More bed. More bed. Cock in cunt. Mouth on mouth, bodies as one… I’ve an itch developing, that even your soft warm lips can not save me from. Can not, rescue me from…. The madness of life. That cruellest addiction, obsession—lust of all—the bliss. The glow of us lying there, in the shadows, panting heavier and harder than one thought possible—our ejaculation of spirit, of the divine, arriving as the ejaculation of relief subsided—I’m thirty-one years old, and I still fucking tremble around you. I’m getting hard again, watching you sleep.
Not from any soft-necrophilic urge, but the memories,
the sensual memories of my body being touched maybe,
it’s just memory foam with an engorged cock really.
I’m hanging for it now. I feel my skin being filled with sand.
Bugs are crawling, scattered in my bloodstream.
I need a fix. I fucking need it now. Your eyes open, you lunge at me again.
Sensual overload—blissful torture enraptures me.
Sitting on my face, I taste that buzzing honeyed—velvet cream.
My cock in your hand, as you begin to suck on my balls. I’m floating. Hard. Pulsating.
Alive. We switch places. Again, you’re on top. Controlling. Commanding.
I’m on fire—but you are fire. You ignite my passions—
but, you are passion and dispassion. Are we fire and ice? I melt in your lips. My blood in your mouth—are we now as one? You pin my hands down on the bed—like I’m on the cross. Tying both of my hands to the headboard—with expert precision and deception.
I can feel the taste buds on your tongue, across my body—The hot sweet embrace of your mouth.
Your tongue—your mouth—your teeth working their way, ever, ever further south. Again, lost in the meadow of soft chest hair you whisper softly as you slither– “Oh, what’s awaiting me down there?”
Cock on fire—desperate for your touch. Heart beat racing, energy floating, fires burning so fucking strong. Time stands still, as I feel the sensation of your mouth on me— You kiss up my body again, still stroking my cock and rubbing my balls, your lips touch. You suck on my ear, I’m floating now. Completely under your spell. Under your control. I cum.


About jameswfrobertsdapoet

Emerging Poet and Writer. From Bendigo, Victoria, Australia. I present a show called Crazy Talk/Word Berserk, on www.phoenixfm.org.because I believe in what Phoenix has to offer. No where else will you get the diversity of Gospel, Country music shows, Koori themed shows and Poetry and Experimental music? My father, Bryan did a show on 3CCC in the 1980’s called the Keyboard Hour for a bout 8 years, until he died. That is partly why I joined Phoenix but mainly it’s because of the diversity we offer people and also I really do feel that we are an important vehicle, an important voice for the Community at Large. My interests are Poetry, Literature, Music, Movies, Cultural Awareness and Philosophical pursuits. My show is basically a Late Night Radio Show for Artists, Poets, Musicians and Creative Thinkers of all types to come and inform, enjoy, entertain and inspire each other. So join me and my guests from the local Artistic Community to be inspired, to be entertained and informed
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One Response to “Memories of Us”…excerpt from Tuesday Suicide….

  1. lawsonsotherdog says:

    nothing like a soft necrophilic urge……off to bed now….reminds of someone i know up here that piece…

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