Love vs Sex 173 (Part 2 of 2 – His version)

Night, in the Tent

(a parody of love and other sorts)

I smile knowing a Fairy is
as a Fairy does
a fulminate midsummer’s night dream
finds its roots
buried not in town,
but deep within fire, stone, wood, wind,
and
tent.
asleep, awake, in between
it matters not
to
a Fairy muse of mischief

Smells:
an odiferous bombardment
of exuberant and abundant patchouli…
undulating and lingering
clouds of apricot, barley, wheat,
Stanford, Tadcaster, Yorkshire of North…
Insatiable fluttering Fairy pheromones
pungent and eagerly poised
toward
a sightless though titillatingly sweet
pollinating dance in the dark

Sensations:
knees, scepter, tongue, neck and back
making themselves known
in spasm and exhaustion
for their contortionist offerings
yielded in the only tribute
capable of turning verbose meandering pillow talk
into the spun golden threads
of peaceful silence
Her mouth so shut and sweet
an exchange of the utmost worth
for all of my aches and throbs and throes
an auditory paradise of a finally faded off Fairy

Sounds:
the waxing and waning rhythmic resonance
of sonorous cacophony
rolling and tumbling jaggedly
upon itself
a distant encroaching Fairy thunder
manifesting all about me
trapping me in the bellowing midst
of the inescapable close confines
of our nylon nest
and
rousingly punctuating its proclamation
of restless perturbedness and perpetual startlement
for all of the woodland creatures
near and far
in
an erratic and ineludible staccatic roar

I hear her unzipping the tent,
stumbling out into the dark night.
slow, irregular, and unsteady foot thuds
hit the nearby ground
in the tiptoeing stealth and steadiness
of a inebriated pirouetting elephant.
another unzipping
the cascading trickle of micturition
when her flow finally wanes
she ebbs back awkwardly into the canopied ocean from whence she recently arose.
sliding, crawling, burrowing, closer and closer
crushing my ankle
squashing my genitals
head butting my chin, my cheek, my brow
finally approaching my lips with a kiss…
honeysuckle dripping with the dew of early dawn
her aim only slobbers a nubbin of my nose
before bubbly voice ablaze chimes the bells of four AM
and
gleefully inquires if we might
in the here and now
discuss the meaning of the universe
along with transcendental metaphysics
and various other interesting and sundry things.

Cribb

2015

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