Before Comfort’s Bliss

Thighs sliding, fingers cramped, sweaty pores, moving hands.

Rocking swiftly, moving gently, moaning sounds, hefty taking.

Hands caress, muscles push, breaths grow heavy, lamps are shook.

Moving swiftly side to side until a turn brings her to rise.

Rising up from up to down, pushing forth, pulling out.

Turning over, once again, breaths do mate, fingers blend.

Kissing, touching, quaking lots, moving down from neck to next spot.

Lips do squish, tongues they kiss, elbows bend , her pelvis kicks.

Eyes they meet from eye to eye at first they see but soon they fly.

Enter back into her body, watch her glisten, feel her naughty.

Twisting over to one side, slides to hip, leg twined is fine.

Hair grows wild in his hand, pulling hard, faster again.

Moving closer, dripping sweat, to her forehead, feel her breast.

Sheets all rustle, bed does break, blankets fall and moans do rage.

Raising volume hear the sounds from one man’s push till one girl’s found.

Voices quiet, thoughts they bleed, grips of holding pressing deep.

Heads come closer, heat it rises, slanted mattress provides for driving.

Springs they rattle, muscles ache, one limb stiffens, one girl shakes.

Hurrying on, fast again, lips they meet, breaths quicken.

All at once the sounds explode as does the load as does the show.

The two embrace for one small kiss before a rest and comfort’s bliss.

– Thomas M. Watt

Don’t said it wrong!

Vision is dim eyes are blurred, where do I go, where had I were.

Grammar school lesson easily taught – the writers who make it don’t give a fauk.

What do we say, what do we do, what do we know, what’s new with you.

Laughing, happy, crappy, cough.

I hate all those people who constantly scoff.

Stand up my friend let’s hear your joke then,

Let’s see how it goes when the critic stands in.

Shitty dippy, dippity-doo. Find me a snack and I will bark for you.

Oh boy he’s crazy, shit now I know, I shouldn’t have read this, wait shit I wrote.

It.

What’s with this poem and all these strange rhymes? Did he really just add only one word to that line?

And who does he speak to, for whom is this written, why does he breakdown his voice intermitten?

God oh that’s painful, ‘nother word misspelled, dammit to heck the writer can’t seem to tell,

The difference ‘tween ramblings, spellings and his, ability to place commas within sentences.

And why does he talk with his voice like it’s mine, why does this guy pull this shit all the time?

Somebody tell him, please somebody say – We are all just waiting for your style to decay.

You will soon fall, dwell with the rest, you will shortly collapse and see our way is best.

No sir I’m sorry, really I do, the problem with me is, I just don’t care about you.

I am a bit crazy, hazy with words. See them like colors, splash on my verbs.

My work is of art, a mixture of paint. A strange tendency to love what most people hate.

Well fuck me I said it, I did what I do, scramble your brain, and be like mine too.

– Thomas M. Watt

(Painting courtesy of Ayse Juaneda, the greatest painter in the modern world. You can view more of her artwork at http://aysejuaneda.wordpress.com)