Empty Sex Pt 2

Crystal beads cascade, drained
through the freshly bleached porcelain.
I expunging the sweet souvenirs of our sleepless night.
Sober from the water and the whirring extracting fan,
Here I dry, stood, stuck at you.
no longer clouded in ecstasy.

We dance flicking invites and excuses
days stepping forward and rear,
forte e piano.

In our immediacy we erupted
to spill but sparks upon damp wood.
A trudge toward a desirable goal .

I see you only
within digital screens,
devoid of an intimacy once tasted
And I wonder, to what precisely did I grasp?

*****

Link to Part 1:

https://jcfitzderick.com/2015/07/28/empty-sex-pt-1/

Empty Sex Pt 1

In a carnal crash of two
eyes glazed
heated in sexual need.
We sought our delicious counter.

I approached you,
bearing words of no weight.
You were smiling, cheeks rosed,
eyes coyly flitting away.

Upheld by the bar and it medicines,
we back and forth, exchanged air,
hoping for a bold gale,
so we may sail afar.

And so,
surrounded by shoes fitting another,
in your bed,  I wake.
An explorer of every pleasure’s niche,
my right arm humming, unconscious
from a precarious night’s pose.

We sip tea, and a second one too,
laying again exposed,
as we flick questions, discovering
passions and pursuits .

Clothed now in Hampstead, we part,
returning to our lives before this past morning,
our gaze locked, gasping reunion.

This Friday -As The Last

My eyes flee to all corners of my four walled hold,
liberation grasped through windows, stolen back.
Back to the luminescent glare of my old HP;
as I acquiesce to my paid servitude.

The week’s edge nears as time retreats,
the seconds absconding -drawing You ever closer.
Closer still, the embracing thoughts of Sunday’s sheets,
enveloping me –warm, contented, in your arms.

Lyon, London ou Brazil

Si je parle français ?
La vie à Lyon,
au Croix Rousse même.
Ici Je dessin le coeur des figures
qui me passent,
une plume à main
un piccolo à l’autre.

Ou viver no Brazil
Tomando um café e escreve em Portugues.
Minha língua dançando samba,
como bossas tropicais lavar sobre mim.
Minha alma de ouro do sol equatorial.

I sit here in passage
an architect of sand castles,
creations washed away
as I construct another.

I Commute With You

Jostled by the rhythmic rock of the 7:44,
through swaying others, you
a jasmine flower.

Our eyes never met
our time dispersed either side of the carriages end.
-The closest we’ll ever be.
Our union was without words, embrace
nor an emotional wink requited.

I know nothing of you, but
your radiant presence
illuminating my overcast morn,
All before you,
devoid of beauty’s vivid colour.

I starved for a glance unreturned;
your eyes through the window
adrift with the birds.
Our motion breaks
and now we all change,
all change;
arrived at London Bridge
our encounter unrealised.