Sexual Telepathy

Dear Motown Lover,

We’ve been gambling in dangerous territory for a while now. Submitting to the flirtatious hands of seduction as I throw my chin up and toss my shoulders back. Seemingly intoxicated on laudanum and each other’s high coos.

My back pressed against the counter top, as you slow grind between my fleshy thighs. Remember that one time we tried it with head stand as your hand cradling my buttocks? Explicit memories on the stairs, in the car — and really everywhere in between.

Then there are times when we play it safe —not too safe, abandoning our thoughts on another astral plane, where we sorta resonate on a wavelength. Confined to the pleasure of a telepathic game.

One thing I know is there’s no compass to measure the latitude  — no device that confirms the magnitude of these nostalgic vibes.

I especially revel in getting undressed by your lustful eyes. Almost as much as I love the sight of your naked bum. In the end, we’re clothed with each other’s skin and the night.

We share our secrets with the creatures of the night and our wobbly bed, addicted to the scent of each other skin, so that even when the sky weeps and we’re caught out in the rain, there will always be something I look forward to.

I feel fuzzy at the thought of you and my jaw softens into a beaming smile. Though I’m not one for the thespian romance, the virus spreads even to the strongest of us.

Your kiss jeopardises the core of my buttress. I’m trapped in the cervices of our bond.

Yet I’m not willing to be saved.

One thing I know is there’s no compass to measure the latitude  — no device that confirms the magnitude of these nostalgic vibes.


Dear Vanity,

What a scruffy slutty one you are

you have succumbed mighty men with your armoured weapon

and ensnared kingdoms of Emperors in your grip

you rave for enmity and war

your reign stretches beyond mere eyes can see

with your succubus sisters, Sex and Power

you dominate and ruin the earth to rubbles

the illusion of sex, how clever your disguise is

Men think it is the biggest enlightenment when coming of age

women bare their chest and buttocks to be successful at success

a dab at Medusa’s quaintrelle’s fate

the art of deception, the most brilliant one there is

has wise men and demi-gods trodding down a wide lane

Enter power, what ordinary men yearn to behold

what mighty governments will never give up

’til the cunning hand of death rips it from cold decaying hand

while others wait in line to get a whiff

from a plumber to the richest man in the world

from a boy with no shoes to an accomplished business mogul in Africa

she doesn’t lie about giving it all up for the one who’d do anything for her

Giving in abundance, yet demanding much more

she strips and double-fucks the brains of men, making them immortal

tho as long as blood flows through their veins, they are still fallible.

Vanity you play a cruel game,

the ball always in your court

who is ballsy enough to stand up to you?

men have studied your approach, and understood your ways

men have slain their flesh and blood to exalt her

but it’s just dust

even more common than cotton with plaids

dust, more basic than atoms

she plays an unfair game, she does

all the same her psalms will echo

from the rotting mouths of wealthy leaders.


A former lost soul.

Reckless Lovers

Candles check.

Chardonnay check.

Roses check.

Not to downplay the foreplay

but second chances is only fair play

He thought so

So did she.

Without  reflex or resentments.

They toy with the notion

that sets it into motion

Before hand the thought of his presence brought commotion

discriminating bravado romance from reckless emotions.

lips plum  like cherry

inviting her to make merry

from monasteries in january

with groins so heavy

tensions released via missionary

Musky pheromones dance through her sinus

on a stale autumn night

all that is needed are

A dopamine high

An Aphrodisiac

His lingering fingers

Her hard nipples

The nape of his neck

the arch of her back

His broad chest

Her fluffy buttocks

His breath. Her breath. Synchronised

While vibing to Al Green’s, ‘sha la la’

Spinning on the vinyl recorder

till the first light of day spews through the velvet curtains