In the meadow’s molten aureole, beneath Sol Invictus’ blaze,
A forgotten feast of mortals lies, her ancient rite ablaze.
Clad in gossamer silk, veil of the civilized age,
Yet ‘neath it coils the scarlet thread, the doe’s secret gauge.
Fresh-shorn mound, tender as new-sprung fern in Beltane dew,
Each zephyr’s lick a horned god’s tongue, awakening the true.
The thunder swells within her loins, a storm no mortal chain
Can bind— she strays from linen shroud to the wildwood’s domain.
Amid the riot of wildflowers, priestess of the untamed green,
She raises silk like sacred veil, parts the petals unforeseen.
Her vulva blooms, quivering altar to the Great Mother’s call,
Exposed to vaulted sky, where ancient spirits thrall.
Two fingers, like antler tines, divide the living shrine;
A tremor runs, electric, as the golden flood divine
Arcs forth—a libation poured to earth, to root, to seed,
Warm amber river cascading, feeding soil’s primal need.
The red thong, sodden relic, slips down thighs of ivory gleam,
She lifts it to her nostrils—inhales the heady, feral steam.
Musky essence rises, wild as doe-scent after rain,
Her own urine’s perfume, sacred brew of lust unchained.
She breathes it deep, like incense from a censer forged of flesh,
The stag within her stirs, tongue phantom on the fresh-
Released warmth; echoes of the rut, where buck seeks doe’s trace,
Lapping golden sign of estrus in the moonlit chase.
Body arches back, bow drawn taut to Diana’s silver arc,
Quivers ripple through parted lips, near-orgasmic spark—
Not mere relief, but ecstasy of beast and goddess fused,
The animal unbound, the pagan pulse transfused.
Golden streams anoint the grass, a rite of fertile flood,
Marking territory, blessing seed in earth’s rich mud.
No shame in this surrender—only holy, savage grace,
The human veil dissolved in nature’s fierce embrace.
The silk descends once more, a shroud upon the flame,
But memory burns eternal: the quiver, the wild claim.
In every future need, the meadow calls her back—
To drink her own elixir, to run the ancient track.
-
Libation to the doe Goddess
-
The Opportunist
In the porcelain room
where steam still lingers,
he enters, locks the world behind him.
There they hang, bikini panties,
thin as breath on the tub’s wet lip,
cotton once snow, now softly grayed
by the secret press of her days. The crotch has surrendered its innocence:
a shallow, velvet hollow molded perfectly,
the exact twin of her vulva’s quiet architecture,
the inner lips cast in soft relief,
parting faintly down the center where fabric settled deepest,
thinning to near-translucence along that intimate seam,
then rising forward, converging to cradle
and half-veil the small hooded pearl
of her clitoris, its glans a subtle raised ridge
preserved like a thumbprint in warm wax
beneath the delicate fold of prepuce. The whole shape ergonomic,
a living negative cast by years of riding bicycle seats,
tight jeans, slow morning stretches,
the quiet friction of her walking through the world.
Fabric thinned to silk at the very core,
edges faintly frayed where her thighs kissed it raw. His pulse stutters.
Fingers tremble, then claim.
He presses the warm ghost of her against himself,
inhales the faint musk of her skin and soap and something sweeter,
then wraps that perfect imprint around his ache
and moves,slow at first, then desperate
riding the very contour she left behind. A low groan swallowed by running water.
Release comes sharp, hot, forbidden,
spilling into the cradle her body shaped.
He catches every drop like a thief.
Wipes, folds, smooths.
Hangs them exactly as found—
one leg loop crooked just so over the chrome,
crotch facing the wall,
no wrinkle out of place. The toilet sighs, fills, roars its white noise.
Door opens. She is already there to claim what she had forgotten,
leaning against the opposite wall,
arms folded, smile half-hidden. As he passes, she slips past him,
snatches the panties down,
presses them to her cheek for one heartbeat.
Later, alone,
she will unfold them,
trace the faint new dampness at the center,
lift them to the light,
and forever wonder—
did he
or didn’t he ? -
Atlas of the threshold
The Mons rises first, a gentle hill pillowed under skin, down-soft or shadowed,a prelude mound where pulse begins to gather like weather before rain.Then the majora,outer gates,plush twins curved in quiet symmetry,furred or smooth, they part like pages of an ancient, living book, guarding what lies within.Minora unfold beneath, asymmetrical petals, ruffled silk or thin veils, crimson to rose to dusky wine, bthey flutter with breath, swell with want, framing the vestibule’s moist nave where two small mouths wait, one for breath, one for deeper ingress.At the apex, the hood arches, a soft cowl, retractable silk, sheltering the glans ,pea-small pearl or elongated ridge when aroused, nerve-dense crown of an unseen iceberg, crura forking inward like roots seeking light, bulbs engorging, twin chambers of swell.All of it breathes: erectile lace, glands weeping clear dew, a landscape remade each cycle, each touch , not fixed, not singular, but a mutable estuary where tide meets tide, pleasure mapped in folds no two alike.Here the body speaks its own geometry: valley to ridge to hidden fork, a negative cast of desire itself, inviting not conquest but careful navigation, reverent tracing, the slow discovery that anatomy is praise.
-
In the half-light, reverent
She kneels like someone who already knows
the liturgy by heart—no hesitation,
no theatrical slowness for the camera.
Just the quiet ceremony of want.Her mouth is warm doctrine,
lips forming the first prayer
around the thick pulse of him.
She takes him in stages:
shallow, curious ,then deeper,
until the root presses against the soft back wall
and her throat opens like a second mouth
learning to say yes without words.There is rhythm, but not metronome,
more like tide pulling salt through stone,
steady, inevitable, ancient.
Her hands stay gentle at his base,
thumb tracing the vein that jumps
every time he thinks he can hold on longer.Eyes sometimes lift to find his,
not pleading, not performing—
just checking: Still with me?
And when he nods, wrecked already,
she returns to her work
with something almost tender,
something that feels like worship
if worship could be this filthy.When the shudder starts
low in his spine, gathering like storm
she does not pull away.
She seals tighter.
Accepting the warning flex,
then the next,
then the hot sudden flood of him
in thick, slow ropes
that she takes down like communion wine,
every pulse, every spill,
claimed and finished inside her.After, she stays a moment
forehead resting against his thigh,
breathing through her nose,
letting the aftershocks ripple through him
while her tongue lazily sweeps the last sensitive drop
from the slit like she’s signing the final amen.Then she rises, lips still glossy,
small proud smile curling one corner,
and kisses him once deeply unhurried
so he can taste himself on her tongue
and understand exactly what she means
when she whispers against his mouth:“Mine now.”
Notorious Poetry 