The Monumental Insignificants

Writhing softly as a cantata whispered,
skin fuels friction-
a rhythmic, rising action smooth silk collision.
A guitar riff electrifies,
tranquilises,
paralyzes,
the blood slipping through our veins
like buttermilk sun rays
licking cloud edges on a mids-morning day-
blinding our moon-lit skin, braided,
in a warm, delicious cacoon,
noon-lit room, seeing.
Soft lips scoop and fingers slip, lose grip
clinging to our every mistake,
rapture just a breath away.
Spilt milk
and crumbs of memories linger.
Poignant instants among the fuzzed out blur
of the mights
and the night's moments you lived,
electrified.
Crunching through
licking the salt from your fingertips
not one misplaced slip
and taste buds tingle and mingle
with the tangled flavor
that swivels your eardrums
and taps to your toes
bounces off the walls
laughing all the while.
Slamming Jack and licorice-a-like liquor,
feeling inside
like slithering down a warm slope
of fluid words.
Magic to your ear buds-
a guttural whisper escapes into the empty
and makes the silence more genuine.
Teeth scrape cartilage
with the slightest, most deliberate pressure.
Eyes, heavy-lidded,
glazed, reflecting a glossy peachy keen picture.
Breezes bob gently past
the sheet-thin blanket of heat
we fell through.
And the lava in the lamp continues to move.