Poetry by AJ Heard |
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AND DISTANCE © A. J. Heard February 2000 How many words will fill a mile? What is the distance between the thought of your body next to mine and the sticky heat between my thighs? The sound of your voice and the touch of your hand? If I fill this page with words will that cover the distance to your heart? Bring your body close to mine again, where I can feel the breath of your exclamations on the back of my neck? Words. Words that march along the curve of my spine, covering the warmth of my flank, getting tangled in wiry curls on moons, and mired in syrupy slickness between neither lips. A Mona Lisa lie smile. Words that light the path to the soul, underlining insecurities, exposing longing and need. Imperfect words. Should I use more, or turn snake like with tail in mouth and devour all I've ever written or said and we can start again? What can I do to stretch, to reach, to cover that distance that grows, a yawning maw, between us? Tell me, can I touch you again? |
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LONGING
(For Christian)
© A. J. Heard January 2001 Sitting on that concrete block Holding the canvas canopy Under which we sheltered From the rain, I wanted you. I wanted you right then, right there, even surrounded by curious strangers, who walked by with prying eyes, as I leaned into your warmth, wanting to be vulnerable to your touch. Aching for the feel of skin exploring skin as we pressed our bodies together, a physical prayer, your soft kisses stirring embers I had carefully banked against fear of disappointment. Shamelessly I responded, a hot twist of want Curling within, leaving behind a residue That reverberated inside the rest of my evening. |
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LEAVE
ME (For Christian)
© A. J. Heard February 03, 2001 I want to touch you so deep you’ll never forget, not even when you sleep. You’ll feel the heat, sweltering, sticky, like New Orleans in July or August. A miasmic funk covering all your dreams, calling your want to rise in a tidal wave of longing. For me. I want to be closer to you than your next breath, inscribe my name across your id . . . in declaration. I am here! I have given myself to you, a gift of many parts. Flesh and bone, imagination, heart and lust. I prepare myself in a ritual of magic and desire, Eve and the Serpent now one. A sensuous spiral of wit and sexuality. You tease me—Now I see you, now I don't. Keeping me on arousal's tip toes, loosing "trepidation, a low slung bitch" to nose inside my mind, leaving narrow trails of anxiety behind. I want you to give me your heart, drown in my kisses, take my intensity, and wear it like a second skin, and then, leave me. So I can look forward to doing it again. |
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LEATHER
HAIKU
© A. J. Heard February 5, 2001 Want claws inside skin heart beats beneath passions fangs feral unrestrained Devours blood and bone juicy offering inspired exquisite release Whip kissed, want unfurled feasts on fleshes pleasures' pain leather kisses sate Limbs restrained, love play indolent licentiousness delicate freedom. |
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| DEBUTANTE'S
BALL © A. J. Heard February, 2001 The taxi driver liked the show as I climbed out onto the curb. Climbing up on those 4 1/2 inch heels my legs seemed to go on forever. Legs that carried me into Jezebel's through a gaping maw, a mouth into a blue and black cavern, as two men walking by stopped to watch. Approaching the stairwell, I feel every muscle from my ankles to the tender spot just above the cleft of my ass. My ankles and inner thigh muscles, working overtime. Slowly undulating down the narrow steps, feeling like some kind of showgirl wishing there was someone here to appreciate the show, I descend into a sea of layers, emotions, like geological periods exposed in a dig. Red room, another dimension, like a door to hell. DI lighting reflects off ruby walls. A curious effect, obfuscating vision, making it impossible to remember faces clearly after a few drinks, with any certainty. The perfect rendezvous. |
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DRUNK
LUST VALENTINE (For Simon)
©A. J. Heard 02-12-2001 He made me drunk with lust, lost in a fog of desirous rut, nerve endings twitching, burning with an itch that needed to be scratched. Constantly. A lust, that reached out and touched better than AT&T could ever have imagined or designed. For the first time, my appetites were given their due, or so he led me to believe. Now, two years later, nerves like fine filament, mangled and burnt out, still try to connect. |
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All poems © 2000-2001
by A. J. Heard. All
Rights Reserved. Used here by permission of the author. Do not reproduce
or distribute without expressed written consent from the author.
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