a blanket hung by the maiden:
blowing in the winds,
blowing from the line.
the cliffs clapping and retreat foam.
the bearish tug and pull of the sails against the electric sea
gray and gold locked in vaults,
at old movie houses.
Covered in the dust of antiquity.
The build up,
passions, tragedy, loss, hatred, love, life, death.
The pulse reaching climax.
The heat of the sun,
Knife in the water,
Rhythm and row two three row…
Now lay, me on this hammock swinging these lines.
oh Verlaine.. Sweet Neruda..
Skin on skin finding the pulse.
Sex on sex.
Lounge as cats on a summer day,
lapping our salty flesh.
A part in the lips,
adventures laying around never to be documented,
satisfied, to the lowest keys.
We hold beyond the chest’s armor, wrapped in pulsating vines.
Blood pumping to every muscle.
Exploring depths, leagues.
homes made within the pulpit.
The sea, as bewildering as the sky.
Your breath becomes rapid.
Your body moves faster to the beat
and your heart starts pounding in your chest the rhythms of our bodies entwined Pulsating walls pulsating sex. ah melody. Oh climax jubilee
moans the trumpet explodes, scents so sweet, so tantalising escaping into the air
marks left ode to the delicate flesh of our fruit bodies
faces beet red, burning cheeks.
gasping for air
in a coma
jerome moore's Other Poems
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