She lays beneath me,
my pierced tongue trace tickling
her belly –
my shoulders, broad as death’s wings,
shadow her, and she’s lost
to threading rain and Ian McKaye’s
straight edge rants,
split and spiked, sotto voce,
on my untested leather.
II: Worlds to show (terra incognito)
Her spoken words & orphic heights
her unfathomed territories the nexus
of my desires;
boundaries stripped, I find myself
beneath avocado moons & monsoon kisses,
buxom earth & slipped valleys –
lesser measures of her worth,
her arousing eyes a mere beginning.
III: Our world, pink & black
by her punk pink sweater,
her sensuous intense
bells this punk-&-blues cat,
her shameless insurrectionist mouth
clasped to mine,
her eager limbs pulling me close,
deeper between the stacks.
IV: Near domos Aidao
quietly dangerous & beautifully flawed,
sits with me at crossroads,
near congenial devils
flashing ironic crosses.
Nearby, blues singers keen
corporate rape blues,
in their threnodic, harmonic,
They sing about being lost,
each of these seven intersecting roads
a possibility of damnation or salvation,
probably a bit of both.
She & I know our way,
damnation a temptation
in our long-ago juvenility:
or, as she says,
“we know our limits now”:
my leather is tested and creased;
her insurrectionist mouth
is kinder, wiser.
She stops hot-penning her book,
a familiar, orphic flash in her eye –
a flash that has carried me above
gentle green crescents,
her precipatory kisses whetting. . .
so many beginnings & endings with her,
my curvy pink-and-black queen,
still sexy, still crossover.
Bio: Steve Isaak, sometimes published as Nikki Isaak and Chuck Lovepoe, is the author of several poetry anthologies. He is the editor of Reading & Writing By Pub Light, www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com.