Not my kind of BJ

Once posed as pound-shop
Churchill;  now reveals himself
as a cheap liar

’53

She spoke to me quite openly, about aspects of her life
and episodes…
Sometimes I met her eyes, sometimes her eyes looked down
in hesitance…

We’d kissed. I’d held her hands, and helped her with her dress –
the zip was kind…
Her oral skills were wonderful, at least as good as mine:
hungry;  practiced…

Her touch was soft, her body firm.  I actively adored her slender frame…
We promised more
explosive exploration;  while traceries of sound, of painted filaments 
connected us…

Our lives just touched, briefly ~ rich lives, we’ve led in parallel ~
with benefits…

Signal red

When I woke in the night, I wanted you so much!
I burned, I yearned, to writhe again with you,
to share our fullness in those frantic urgencies;
the rod of my desire lay heavy on my guts –
a delightful torment, chasing sleep to shadow –
the road was bright, the fires were lit,
the way ahead was clear! 

But after sunrise, black and grey return.
My arm lies flat, the light is smoky red; 
the fat controller is awake in me,
sullen, soured and heavy with his duty
in my fractured signal tower, to block the route:
caution’s cold hand will keep my husk
protected, through another day in safety.