~ Setting things on fire. Mostly words ~

~ Often speaking in tongues ~

~ to Each Other ~


Thursday 29 November 2012

How to Make a Sugar Peony Rose Part



I've seen you bloom, live before my eyes.   Again and again.

botanical no. 5510 ~ Kari Herer

And still, Your loveliness scares me.   To see Your quiet cock thrills me motionless.  
I am stock still, enchanted with , engrossed in the impossible colours of You.

I know I know I know in my head what I expect to see each time you pull down your trousers for me, now quickly and we laugh,
             or slowly and I, on sharp tenter-hooks forget to breathe.

But You ~ Your cock.  Your burning member.  Not even the electronic images I keep close can serve it justly.  

Nor can the moving pictures I stole from You.  

The only thing more beautiful than your cock is the soundtrack that comes with it.  The sound of You when your bellows and foundry breath matches the unspeakable hues of your lust.


There is no substitution for this demon's cock, live and readying for me.
I tried to find the colours of you to show you the way that I see them.   
I hunted for all the hues and translucencies of you.

But ... nothing quite matches you.  Nothing inanimate.  There are no fabrics soft enough to tell the silky stories of the strength of your nude un-guardedness.  And in any case, I'd rather have your surprising velvety skin in my mouth and your falling petals upon me, than silks and velvets done up to please me. 


The closest I could find were hot house blooms.  
The kind of flowers with textures you do not believe, 
even when your face is hot-housed close to them. 


It's ridiculous to think that only women have a hot house sensuality.  
While I was searching for just the right images I found myself lost and aroused in search of a bloom of your likeness.   
Not a single image brought to mind women and their florid abandonment.  
No - each flower image after image was like chasing the perfect pornographic vision of the sight and sound of You.

I never did find the perfect bloom, but it matters not.    
You are that perfect bloom.  In scent, in size, in scarlet.    

Web page upon page of flowers made me want to eat You petal by perfect petal but I could not breathe.   I wanted to look away but I could not move my head.    I became caught in dreaming of swallowing your petals, picking up that trail of hot crumbs and ginger-rose-water scent You lay down for me, when You lay down for me.

What you've shown me over the past few months have become as images ingrained I cannot forget.   Seeds you've buried deeply.  You're the gardener who knows how to make this Sugar Peony Rose part when 
                                       sultry images that sweep over my daylight reveries, chase me to bed, 
                                              and imbue my sleepy end of day moments
                                                     with the silent pulse of Thrill.   

This is not the first time we've talked of your incredulous member, and I know it won't be the last time to talk about ...

                    Your pulse.  My thrill.   Ever blooming nightshade, for me.

                                 Where the most matching shades I find in this heaven on earth 
                                                         
                                                     are mirrored in ....


Blood Red Peony ~ Deborah J Humphries

 .... the slow traces of flowers by night or by sun.  
Everything about them brings you sharp into focus.  
Relaxed, they Exude themselves forthright, for the sheer pleasure of others.   
The way that You Exude for me  ....