| Poem: Submit | Random | Best | Worst | Recent | Comments |
|
Before Dinner (Free verse) by D. $ Fontera The pestle is bone.
The whisk, fingers.
Balustrades tremble to my touch.
The morter is flesh.
Each dancing spot of flour
Dusts your skin,
Flutters with your breath
Steps buckle and sway.
My voice, a stifled burst.
The pin turns a swathe.
The cup, sweet lips.
Smoke churns as I enter.
The breadth extends.
I hesitate, pierce the doorway.
Up the ladder:
iPod
Down the ladder:
Holocaust
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.5
Posted: May 5, 2006 10:56 AM PDT; Last modified: May 5, 2006 10:56 AM PDTWeighted score: 5.1788044 Overall Rank: 4918 Comments:
[8]
Ranger @ 62.252.32.15
|
5-May-06/10:58 AM
|
Reply
I doubt dinner was on the menu.
Morter and pestal, a short melding before dinner - how sweet. Pierce the doorway - how enticing. Yes.
Very nice, tres kinky :-) Although on the first read, I felt that 'bone' and 'fingers' were reminiscent of a skeleton. Not sexy!
BTW, "mortar", not "morter". 165 view(s)
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
