So over the past week or so I’ve had the absolute pleasure of working on the following collaboration with a fairly decent Seattle-based poet, Poet Girl Em.
Now, when I say fairly decent, that is the Aussie way of downplaying someone’s talents. Emily’s writings, musings and recordings are phenomenal and it has been an absolute pleasure to read all of her delicious tales on life, love, light and dark. She is all woman, totally not afraid of her shadow side and overflows with unending imagination and heart. Can’t wait to see what she produces next. Keep on writing Em, you are a literary rockstar! xo
Our idea was simply to write a stanza each, back and forth, until poems end. I start and Em finished…in fine form I might add. Enjoy!
The dark night seeps; through glassy pores
A dim light flickers; the only spark
Illuminating; one single soul
riding an empty carriage; an empty train.
The doors open wide; she flies in.
He smiles, she pants; as train departs,
she wrings her wet hair; catching his smile.
That next distant stop; not for a while.
She sits, slick with a slide on the red rawhide,
facing him, peeling off her soaked layers.
He cannot help but observe her demeanor,
the way she moves, her graceful grooves,
curves kissed by raindrops slipping slowly.
His tongue instinctively licks his lips in response,
his heart pounds as he thinks lustful thoughts.
She catches him mid-stare…and doesn’t let go.
“Wet outside?” His smile tells the tale
“Saturating.” As she flicks her long, dark hair behind.
The nape of her neck now exposed, wet.
Her legs spreading, ever so curiously.
His eyes transfixed in her motions,
“Where you headed?” She enquires,
knowing full well, the answer laid bare
Core temperature escalates, moisture now steams
off her skin’s seams, evaporating pheromones
wafting his way…he inhales deeply, standing up
marking her in humid heat; her eyes scan his tense length
adjusting just so, luring him back into corner window.
“One-way ticket?” She asks. “Two-way, non-stop.” He says,
leaning in…drawing her head to his in passion’s plea,
lips on lips pursued like a lightning strike decree.
Cold-pressed now against the pane, her juicy lips
now inflamed, pores precipitating in heated beads,
cold rain of past, transmuting sweat it thrives.
His hands draw her in, that soft, sweet flesh,
the small of back, the jaw, the neck,
felt and held, such rapturous delight.
Flickering in passing speed, the train shudders,
she bites his lip, blood trickles a smile; more.
Lips locked, wet hand slides down to cock hidden.
She unzips and draws out what her body now wants,
his hot breath breathes on her chest, he leans against
the warm flesh that welcomes him in, the train lunges
he plunges deep in, as the lights flitter out like fireflies;
darkness one moment, only bodies felt as skin melts…
light the next, for a brief glimpse of predatory eyes’ glint.
Clack of tracks, unmitigated moans, pure percussive lust.
In now blackened journey, of racing train,
a carriage shifts in violent throws, vibrations pulse.
He grasps her ass, pussy lips in lock around his cock,
thrusting further in, her heat-drenched canal.
A bend in track throws them down to red rawhide,
no grounding halt, for these two entwined.
Slippery, wet-bound, lustful bliss; wicked plans unfold:
His train, her tunnel, this night, destination found.
Rhythmic rumble down the line, tunnel headlight shines
like her eyes in the dark, a hint of her secret spark
caught fire down below, she bellows and moans.
At the height of ecstasy, her shuddering glee,
one blissful moment she swells around with a squeeze,
throws her head back, her walls around him erect
ready to take his eager essence as her liqueur tonight,
a digestif of highest order, her appetite whet with delight.
Her screams bursts clear, like a steam train of old
as he blasts wood to fire, load after load.
His desire boils her within, fuel to her billowing stove.
Eyes locked in knowing, both in tighter embrace,
a total furore on rails, a climatic kiss claims.
“Last Stop” announced; Oh the delicious bittersweet!
On these iron tracks traveling, they came as one,
with suggestive derailment, of nights other plans.
That red rawhide slick with sex, their sweat drips.
His tongue traces down to where they connected,
like two train cars perfectly set, locked, matched…
sucking off the salty sweet remnants of her love.
With a lurch, the locomotive pulls into the station,
she licks him clean, leads him onto the platform.
“Room 15?” she say, hotel key slipped to his palm,
“Two return tickets please,” he tells the window.
MT & Poet Girl Em