One Sunday Morning Poem by Butch Decatoria

O
Moan.
Y a w n.
Purr.

How I adore our meanderings.
Mornings of misfit nomads
waking to the sturdy fur of you,
pecks, abs, inner thigh
unclad
body heat...

The world outside feels absent,
your hardness
your breath
presently
itching against yesterday's 5-o'clock
shadow...

We breakfast on such sensations
satin thousand threads
sifting in grips of sheets
creating
silken dunes of flesh creamy hues
soft mounds from our twist
tied
tethered limbs
then opening passages with kisses
and humid licks
our lips:
camelback & cobra songs
to Sahara

Heatwave

where we worship obelisks
until slumber
has rendered us
stardust and sphinx
mused and fused - our flesh again
in hymns
this Sunday morning...

Less stealth of night but copious
is touch
slithering undulations
of parched needs
for us to swim in the hunger of its seas

Since sensing sensual stiffness
your shifting
your shaft
my blood collects
to tighten what is mine within

When this grabs hold of us
like the blinding noon
we forgive
that it is Sunday
mourn that I thirst for you.


Such thickets of urges
juicy sweet confection / completion's
masculine deprivation
half grin half flurry,
No worry
displacing thoughts of infection
secure in our relations...

Stretching with both my hands
behind me
gripping with claws of the passionate
buttocks raised (waiting for rain)
as if to be seen & named
by the gods' - creative breath and shame
I yearn for your embrace
Heaven forgive me
for the heaven he gives me...

Affirmed
as though we were the firmaments
sky without permission (or air rights)
to fly
comely
and in our rhythmic trance

we become Spartans
(with our war cry)
Driven
Breathing
One defeat
Shriven as we're falling
One choice to leap.

Exhale Olympus
Fallen pillars' hush.

Good morning, Love
a taste of how Nirvana feels

constellations and the heavenly
wheel.

Stretching.
Eyes open to take in my world.
Stretching

Behind
Reaching for you

if just briefly knowing
the whole truth...