Neon Village

"you asked over waffles how far
the farthest was I ever gone for pussy.
well once i ended up in Texas to taste
a girl with dick sucking lips, i said,
but she never proved the namesake.
you however should definitely know
that i would much rather make love
most mornings to the most intimate corner
of your throat, but that sounds slipping and who would
I be to surge too fresh, forgetting
who tucks in the corner of the beds.
there’s already a frown now forming
so i can put this a little prettier:
O my papillion my thornless rose tree
i am arctic should you drift, melting over shoulders.
your body is a museum impregnable,
i am breaking in, flittering through your masterpieces.
you are the quick graze of comets,
an eclipse that i will stare at wide-eyed,
but settle for brushing sides of walls
if it means you are the last O angel you
sight to be seen, among everything.
i pick you over the sea grasses,
the baobab and the ghosts of horses
whinnying about weather within you,
the orange hue of London dusk
and all the hope waiting quietly
at the deep dark bottom of the Trevi." 

“Honest Answers,” Slade Gibbs (via clavicola)

(via enjambing)