Let me serenade you with a poem

Sometimes after I have a bucket full of coffee and red wine (I call it "colon pepper"), I indulge in the finer things...eggs, chemistry, scented candles, horse tails...and even literature. Often times, after reading Little Critter's First Shave, I feel provocative enough to write something of my own. And, since I've already written several short stories about me shaving myself, I've branched off into other artistic mediums. Recently, I wrote a poem, and I would like to share it with you:

You Are My Crypt, Inflame My Soul

Don't decay, darling.
Live on like the embalmed Latino women
in my neighborhood.
Absorb my rapture and let me dine
in your coffin.
If our love is paradise then my heart is satin.
And if we don't make it to heaven,
let us shock the souls of Limbo.
Sinless infants will dance
above Purgatory,
shaking the chandeliers of coping families,
so they won't forget us
like the embalmed Latino women in my neighborhood.

Memorial Love

I thought I'd share a piece I composed my sophomore of college for a poetry class. We were assigned to write an erotic poem, and I was one of the individuals chosen to share theirs with the class. As a result, I was fairly proud of myself. I'm no Henry David Thoreau, but I think I present a decent narrative of American forest fornication.

--

Memorial Love

I want to relive that humid evening
On a lover’s hike through the Black Hills.
Our bodies lethargic and gritty
From the dirt trails and damp woods.
We made love so vigorous
Under the gaze of our four founding fathers,
Their granite faces moist
From the steamy democracy
Contrived by our body’s friction.

Your heavy breathing electrified my bones
As I penetrated your beauty in view
Of the pair of turkey vultures
Indulging in a meal of chipmunk and raccoon.
Our eyes met theirs in a feverish frenzy.
We graced their courtship with our glistening bodies.
The rock-face had torn our clothes from us
Like bark from a ponderosa pine.

You whispered hungry words
Muffled by my unclean cries
Of passionate love making
Which were so uproarious
You could have sworn it was
Crazy Horse himself riding off in the distance.
As our echoes trailed off into coniferous air
They reverberated off the cliff face into the clearing.