Octavia

Rage

His love always warms - except

When it scalds with the tepid drizzle of

A careful kiss or 

Polite declaration.

Then burned raw purple I claw 

At his face with my sharp little nails

As he holds me off,

Confused.

Hysteria

Hippocrates believed that the womb wandered around the body, and that lack of sex made it dry up and float higher, so it could end up blocking a woman's chest and suffocating her.

Nearly right.

That night my cunt was in my mouth, and its pulsebeat became the rasp in-out of my breathing as my eyes adjusted to the lightlack.

A curtain chink illuminated his shoulder as he whispered ''You make the first move'; then it moved like a spotlight to dance on the head of his wedding ring. 

And I knew I should say no, I knew he was with that imperative shedding responsibility like you do a heavy coat in a warm room, and that his defence of I-was-drunk-and-she-threw-herself-at-me would rest sure in my conviction. 

Yet his lips were so close that I was exhaling his inhale and what I breathed out was him and me and my wanting cunt.

Lick

Breathe in deep. 

Feel your lungs airdrowning heifer-bellow and watch sugarpowder stars scrambling down your eyelids and hear your heartbeat thump bassline in your mouth.

And that, my love, is a billionth of the synaesthetic strokesenseshock of your mouth pressed between my legs. 

Narcissus

He says that when he presses his forehead to mine he can read my thoughts. Often on drunken cab odysseys he'll be there, cool drugsweat sticky close, then one or other of us will laugh and pull way saying 'Pervert'.

But sometimes, I'll be reading the paper or cinema watching and feel him hard by, and when I turn he'll move his face to mine like a kiss, and his skin grazes on mine as he stares in to my eyes. So close that everything else is lost but him and our breath echoes so his inhale is my exhale and his gaze bite-lock-clamps like the safety bar on a whirlitzer. 

His eyes are silvergrey and they shine and I feel his whole intellect, gnashing and restless, focus in on me. And it's one of the things that I love about him, how he can bull's-eye anything and bazagra its sense reveals itself to him. But when that spotlight is on me my heart beats sickhard in my ears amd I can't work out whether it's from love or from fear, the fear that he'll see into me, down in me, past both what I want him to see and what I see myself. 

Tuesday meeting thought (not minuted)

What I love is when you're fucking me so that I can watch you watch my eyes twist with you inside me. And then you say 'On all fours' and pull out, and there's a moment when I feel the lack of you like the blind headache you get moving from red dripping-honey sunlight into a darkcool room; but I Esther WIlliams one leg up and over the other and push up onto my knees, and in that animal attitude I feel graceful, full of grace and lithe supple as a dancer as you grip my hips and draw me back onto your cock. 

Mindmelt

I flick my tongue into the corners of your mind, and lick with kittenish strokes so sweetly relentless, until you dissolve in the wet warmth of my mouth and I swallow you back in a kiss.

Horny

Once, you said, you dreamt that you had horns. Monstrous antlers, erupting unbound from the sides of your face so that you had to tilt your head to get through doorways, and pretty girls hung their coats from you and swathed you in new year ribbons.

But I imagine Bacchus stubs, mossed velvet grey beneath your hair, and how your neck would slide beneath my palms as I pulled your head down to rub them hardwarm across my belly.

Pick'n'mix (in memoriam woolworthi)

My ankles licked by fallen pink silk as I stand by your sofa and press myself against your mouth while my hands hold down your head (strawberry cream)