→ caves

baby,
it’s cold outside.
i say,
breathlessly,
we should multiply.

arch your back so hard so strong
beads racing to meet me down
curves and turns and rugburns 

i want to hum haughty melodies
across the bumps of your bellody
and tick tock tug the follicles
that synapse-to-synapse the moans
in your head
i want to hum exasperated wants
against the ass of your neck
and i want to
hum on your face.

gentle the slowdance storm
little flakes of sin and sweat
carousel the room
without the concept
of the opposite
of me and you
or me in you
or me is you
and shiver at the breech
and wrap yourself in me
like paper crumbled sheets
in wintertime. 

(summertime post-coital companion)

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   December 12 wesley carls

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    a poem about fucking. This weather’s got

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