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@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; Adagio, In A Hotel Suite, West London, 1889, 1 [Repost]
I sure do---yes!---admire Mister Wilde's tongue,
from which so many witty slurs emerge
to cut down and reduce critical foes
to nothing; and, if possible, to less
than nothing. Each of words will outlast
them all---those poseurs whose time is a waste.
Though Cockney, I am called Adagio
by him during our lovemaking: the flow
of pleasure quickens us, but without haste.
Our sumptuous feast of bliss is never fast.
This hotel's suite is full of luxury
(a beige decor, with a huge tapestry---
Orpheus and Kalain's passion---hung).
Safe in his firm, yet delicate, embrace,
I yield my slender, almost nakedness
given entirely to him to caress,
as he desires, without imposed condition
(or any thought to prudish inhibition).
His tongue glides over me to take a taste;
to sample (through these tan stockings) my toes;
and always gently, always tenderly.
When I am with him, I am not afraid
of haters who resent us and degrade
our feelings and would like to cause
to us, and others like we are, duress
and couthless insults they have crudely flung.
But none deserve to fear when love is made.
As lavender flowers come the bee,
I harvest his sweetness during its surge
(in seven waves)---and, sometimes, with a trace,
after the final lap, left on my face.
