PӧḖrotica: The Writers’ Honeymoon

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PӧḖrotica: The Writers’ Honeymoon

© Kyla Bingham November 24-29, 2014


I hereby pronounce us Poet and Poetess.

The writers’ suite has been appointed with every necessity and toy for our enjoyment,

Pens of every shape, size and color—paper of every thickness, heft and weight,

Even a few electric gadgets, all for our amusement—designed for the ultimate in synaptic stimulation.

So let’s put all this stuff to use and do it right—in store for us in an overload of sensory delight.

We shall consummate our vows with words and imagery.

No hesitation, but rather a desperate, explosive coupling of fertile minds fraught with multiple, simultaneous metaphors.

Fecund creative juices, viscous yet flowing freely and producing offspring named Simile and Italics.

Our frantic, near violent joining evidenced by used, ink-stained pages—crumpled and strewn, tossed carelessly to the floor.

The scent of recently spent adjectives hangs heavy and redolent in the air from feasting on forbidden folios.

Deeply inhale. Take in the perfume of passion. Like a serpent, flick out your tongue, and taste it.

 Exclamations and exhalations from our union flying fast and hot fogging windows and mirrors.

Fingertips sticky and wet with cerebral sweat and pigment residue, dripping, smearing ideas on the walls.

Your intellect and appetites are merciless.

Letters intertwining in a relentless rhythm,   pounding again, and again, and again.

A titillating game of push and pull, parry and thrust, advance and retreat.

Pulsating postulations, suggestive stanzas, hinting at hypotheses, all blinding and flashing until finally, finally we collapse exhausted—our work complete and for the moment replete.

I reveled in the dénouement even more than the exposition.

And now we lay here, lighting up rolled thoughts, passing them back and forth in the aftermath of the cataclysm.

Now that the urgent beast is temporarily sated, what say we take the next round slowly?

We’ll take a leisurely stroll through one another’s brains.

Crawling. Probing. Sliding. An unprotected exploration of every fold, neuron and synapse.

Navigating neurological terrain. Gasping, grasping and grappling to reach the right phrases. Nothing between us but concepts and whispers.

Do we even have any more clean sheets? Yes? Good. Tear off a few.

After a moment to catch our breath and recover, let’s write another and another and a…

Damn. The fountain pen is empty.


I do believe you’re primed.

As I feel your need swelling and growing, in tandem my anticipation again amplifies—it’s building,

No pride, I’m begging, weeping, crying out for more of the heart stopping release of climax.

We can clean up later.

Right now I’m ready to dip into a fresh well of literary intimacy.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

The muse bit me this week. This muse's name happens to be Obbie West. Became acquainted with him recenlty, and he inspires me. His catchphrase, "Poetry Is Passion". I thought I'd expand/expound on that sentiment. I do hope you'll enjoy. (Apologies in advance to my brothers.)