Wet ****, rigid ****
Inappropriate haiku
I **** in your milk

Beating meat again
Five sisters do me up right
******* blues

Some *****,
loose shoes,
and a warm place
to ****.

Aching for your skin
Remembering all your smells
Dying for your touch

It's these small hours; these slow and tired ones,
thick,
heavy with memories,
that can weigh a man down.

I miss you

Time creeps by.

This moment,
this Now,
I can taste your smells.
Rose oil,
amber,
coffee and fresh sheets.

Skin

It's these small hours,
these quiet hours.

Half eaten chocolates mingle with dead leaves
as wood floors yearn for elbows
and I crave the fluids
of Paradise
dripping like sweet nectar
from
your vile and wretched

Gate to Hell.