Rock me baby,
Roll us in the hay,
inside, outside, arms around
You – squeezed tight as
our form is wrapped within the musky,
husky voice of Barry on love,
Sweeping us up in satined velvet,

Silken drapery to make art of lovemaking.
Or was it to make lovemaking into art?

We cannot care, cannot even form questions,
Sentences, words fail us,
Ideas and images devolve
in a crackling blinding whirl

into colors, hot, cool, cold as ice on _______
textures like cherry stained silk-lace,
whirl, churn, burn, yearn
for ecstatic, sensual touches

as we whet ourselves
and drink in eroticism, becoming
more and more insatiable, gorging
faster, faster, more furiously,
desperately as we reach the
Precipice,
The Crescendo and are OH GOD YES!
Away over the void,

White-hot star shoots off the cliff
carrying us beneath,
then the heat cools, light dies

the moment over, all is
the inky, cooling black
Of little deaths and sleeping times