several poems from
Craig Kirchner
Succubus, Muse
I have not written -
as one banished,
amnesiaed
by the promise
of a letter to a
one-night stand -
a dull insomniac,
numb to words,
writhing
in unconscious lust.
Zigzagged,
diverted
from lover's coma to
mystery lips -
a perverted aberration -
wandering,
falling again
from your fever
in some frozen
solitary trance.
Waking now
that sinful sweat
forms on my lips,
soaks the words -
the dawn captures
my loins,
thrusts me back
to the flushed
dead of night
woods
by the bonfire.
I succumb to
your pungent imagery.
Your wetness.
Your nonchalance.
Your flesh
as mouth
and tutor.
cliché at eleven
our words
fertile,
fresh aromatic mint -
fuse giddy to the tongue,
biting like young sex,
raucous shrills in
sweet green air,
then clutter,
stale,
limp dying clover -
fallow fields spin
fast around,
leave them tasteless
grey, unheard
… most the smell
She was ambiguous, that’s all.
I made a jerk of myself,
we understood and that was it.
Now as I touch myself
and pull back the bed clothes,
I remember most the smell.
Oh yes, the touch, feel –
her young taut-suede skin,
her taste like salted marble
and the watching,
both of us into the watching,
but God most I miss
the moist musk of it all.
Confusing multiplicities
and constant titillations
were where we lived -
should have been posted
on the door -
sensational one minute,
bastard the next.
Revelations and introspection,
solo flights to - where
did that come from?
Undisciplined, improvised
sex upon the other -
deep emotional nothings to say,
but anything oral was good.
Your tongue on my shoulder,
licking your lower lip,
fondling my dark side with those
raucous, rascal, deep-brown eyes
that never saw limits but understood.
And always the cum-scented, incense haze,
an earthy, jasmine-drenched dew
that hung like a low cloud,
that was us and this room
and that I now pretend still permeates
these sheets and pillows inhaled
will make me high and hard-on.
