Hot Fantasy

Hot Fantasy ~

Hot phone pressed like a palm against my stomach,
My hand runs over my sweaty skin,
So hot, the sweat-
Trickles painfully slow, down beneath my naval.
And my eye catches with frank fascination on the beaded drop-
It’s smooth, glistening trail that it leaves behind,
While it makes it’s long journey-
Down beneath where the temperature rises,
Into my volcano,
Into my tight core, the peak at which boils an eruptive-
Point.

There’s a fascination with what’s not yours,
Stepping over ashes,
Knowing that it might strike a flame . . .
If you step too far that way,
You know you’re in,
A dangerous situation.

I was tired but I wanted to stand,
As the train rollicked-
Backward and forwards,
My hands pressed flat against the windows,
Breath making small, waving circles,
Like the playful smoke stacks of an unsteady,
Child’s authorship,
A Santa-chimney drawing.
Drinking coffee all day at work, my tongue is parched, moving in and out of my mouth,
Like a dart.
I look into your eyes with my mind,
Your face is dark, thunderous-
Promises of sin running across it.
And other deliciousness.
My tongue, is,
Searching, reaching for something-
Licking something up that it desires,
Something which may or may not be real.
My thoughts are drifting off into madness . . .

Man,
An interesting specimen.
A semblance of sanity weighs in,
A crashing desire that runs,
Like coursing fire, throughout the veins of our,
Electrifying, confused tangle,
Tongues fighting, lashing, battling for air in the space between,
As my body presses into yours,
Pulsating, insinuating-
Bears upon the weight of my lust,
And I,
Fall against you.
It’s a race and whoever gets there first,
wins a championship.

Prostrate, against the ground, I try and lift my head,
I open myself, wide, waiting-
Mewling cries of a cat puncture the capsuled moment-
At laast!
Sounds of ecstasy, as you arrive,
And, like a slingshot I,
Fall and rise upward with a mad kind of energy,
That’s been suppressed for so long, it lacks all measure of control-
Flames from a volcano leaping upward,
Racing into an unknown mystery, full of promise-
And then, seeing my stop, I step off the train . . .
Put my phone smartly into my hip pocket,
Lick my lips, glance to the right and left-
And continue to work.

Reviews

[Richard🖌]

Hrmph … whew!

Goodness, Poetess … such vividly metaphoric word imagery certainly captivates a bard's spirited imagination ever sooo nicely.
If it's not sex, gazing upon your winsome countenance, why's my quickened breath so warm, an electric surge coursing my thighs, inspiring nether thrums to rise?

Beauutiful Free Versing …
"I look into your eyes with my mind,
Your face is dark, thunderous-
Promises of sin running across it.
And other deliciousness."

Excuse me, please, while I crack a window. ; )
Thank you ever-so warmly for sharing your succulently lovely self! ⁓ Richard 🍃

[Graham Plantagenet]

Hot is an apt adjective for this poem, for indeed it is steamy.