Port-al (NaPoWriMo Day 27 – Taste)


giphy (5)


Its temptation is a vituperative
fanged beast…. ready to strike.
First, a lip cuts hard against
your soft. Then it’s all penetration.
The attack is sweet on your tongue,
and it won’t let you go, this you know,
you consume it, it consumes you,
viscous vicious perfume napalms
your mouth, lashing down your throat
it pushes -it pulls, boast of raw muscle
flexing before it takes you, you’ve got
nowhere to go, fire shoots through
your veins, you’re the ass-end of every cliche
the swallowing up and out, cream toasted
you taste the richness of old lovers
phantom tongues bud and blossom
their tribe caving in the maw of your fears
you melt inside yourself, all slippery smooth
grilled fig and black fruit, currants ripen
in your blood, hickory smokes your lungs
your bones ash into salt pillars
flame licks mineral promise
pylons readying worship at the altar
of sacrifice; your body is no longer your own,
you’re not sure it ever was,
the submission is to a thing formless,
fiendish, mindless, ruthless, sightless –
your skin is the Braille in its chemtrail – ten thousand
searing fingertips blindly groping,
searching, kneading, peeling until
you’re feather-light, petal-soft until
you are nothing but the mad sprout of wings.


You rise








Praying its finish never ends, you plunge…


giphy (2)




... into purple silk plush, rivulets of could’ves would’ves spiraling their way down the cascade you’ve become, slinky-like in a scape of dreams, this staircase navigation is a labyrinth that stutter-steps along, you’re tripping over yourself in a haze of perfect basal cleavage, your mica embedded in igneous rock – what happened to the flow? Trees root in your nerve endings, starlings murmur your tears. You haze over in the fog. You’re lost. Welcome to the cartography of want. The maze goes in every direction, and you don’t get to choose the path. Not this time. Are you going up or down? You can’t be sure. Your bones roll like God’s dice, snake eyes peer up at you and jeer. The walls close in, you keep moving. You just keep moving. You feel the compression. Your skin splits. Your memories are extruded, sculpting plaster impressions of a life you’ve never lived.









4 Comments Add yours

    1. ccthinks says:

      Yes… a nice glass of port is transportal . ;)

    1. ccthinks says:

      Thanks, M. You’ve been super supportive of my nonsense and I appreciate it. Cheers, chulo. xo

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