CYCLE OF WORDS

And you wonder why a poem has the ability to turn into a novel
The first drop of words are incensed with passion clay
There are never any leftovers
No anorexia of readers
Every poet wants to screw a noun,
verb or pronoun
To name their poem their bitch
Or SHE prefers for him to build her a strong drink
Without the use of vodka
To spill distraction down her ankles
No protection needed to penetrate her audience
With moans and sighs
Her clit will purr regardless of the time
She’ll be turned on by the wetness of his game
Can a poem have that kind of skill?
Turn her stenographic clit into a novel?
Her fetish grin tells him what she likes
she sees from the mirrored ceiling how his poem
grows a kinky tale
softly he bites her navel
flips her around
spank her firm cheeks until her wetness tells him
she is ready for another stanza
she aches for the next set of reverie
he scribbles his name on her swollen nipples
write DOWN metaphors in her opening
jotting successive pages in circles
he is fearless
never stopping
finding words even further
deeply
something emerge from her screams
a river drafting lines of pleasure
slipping his rhythm
he improvise a slam very slowly
slams her soil with quivers
she flows sweetly into his poem like honey
he taste her gravity
too heavy to call poetry
strong enough to create chapters
he turns into a novel
©10/2006 by C. Delaleu