Mind Caviar Poetry

Robert Scott Leyse is the co-founder/editor/webmaster of Sliptongue, a webzine devoted to frolic, pranks, and sex, of course. He has published his writing in Mind Caviar and other sassy, smart, smut-peddling venues. Leyse loves epigrams and bawdy illustrations. He offers this wise advice: "Never slather a girl's ass with mashed cherries unless you're prepared to lick them off while praising the shit out of her muscle tone and complexion."

Visit Robert Scott Leyse online to read his novel excerpts.

Illustration by Claudio Parentela Visit his gallery online.

Colors Spill
for KC

Aimee, seated erect on the carmine couch
and clothed in black - the window behind
her whirls into silver as her bracelets
flash gold; and these colors spill

Into the electricity of the space between us,
airy density of desire.  Her perfume conjures
pictures of lilacs asway in a spring breeze
of a morning - the latticework of a garden,
roses climbing towards the blithe sun;
and its scent-colors spill

Into the buoyancy of my chest - my falling-
out-from-under myself giddiness, desire's
dips.  The ruby blossom pinned to top
of her dress moves in rhythm
to her breath, dances inside my eyes
and merges with her blue eyes;
and these colors spill

Rapture into my dissolving chest,
the currents of desire.  Aimee shivers

Claudio Parentela
as if the fine crystal spray of a fountain
is settling on the back of her neck;
and the colors of her shiver spill

Tingles into my nerves, such that hot
rain trickles up and down my spine,
the flarings of desire.  I stroll towards her
and her extended arms guide me towards
her yearning mouth - quivering lips
and agile tongue; and these touch-
sensation colors spill

Surges of vertigo into my dissolving
thoughts, desire's gift of unity
with sensation, absence of reflection.
Aimee unzips her dress and squirms free
and the heaving softness of her breasts
caresses my cheeks; and the colors
of her rippling skin spill

Urgent heat into my thighs and back,
lead me to seek the moist warmth
of her life-source, desire's rush
to satiation.  I plumb deeply
and lingeringly, savor her inner
swoon; and the colors of trust
and surrender spill

Vitality and endurance into my muscles,
desire's taut purpose.  Aimee's liquid lips
pull me under the surface of my skin;
and her eyes open wider, allow me
to fall into their upwellings of joy;
and the surging colors
of procreation spill

Trills of delight into my boundaryless
body, desire's union with every molecule
of air.  Aimee's hands clench tight
as her body tightens; and my tight
colors of gushing heat spill

Gasps of bliss into her body opening
to pull me deeper under the glow
of her skin, desire's blurring
of identities.  Aimee tumbles into
wide-eyed wonder, and I follow:

The colors of Aimee's wonder spill
into my awareness until I'm sails
of satin, lifted on a soft breeze.

Mist Garden (Love in Rainlight)

Each droplet afloat in air's a prism warping light
into rainbows as Cleo and I stroll aflutter among
trees, vines, flowers - a garden in a Paris backyard,
St. Germain: high walls, moss overgrown, fling
city sounds distant, surround us with quiet -
time stolen from bustle.

Stolen time?  We've stolen passage into a garden
belonging to: who knows?  And sunlight flickers
through rain-mist - and spring ruts in the colors
of flowers and foliage - and we feel lush,
we do - lush as leaves carpeting the towers
of trees, flowers spilling red, purple, gold,
and white into the steamy air.

Cleo's a child now - I'm a child now: as good
as a prank, this stealing into a stranger's garden
and kicking at the hammock we won't use: too
exposed to possible glances.  Under an oak's
Drooping branches a giggling we go -
a high ho a diddly o!

With moss for bed and foliage for veils Cleo
and I steal more than time: she isn't "mine,"
after all - married, she is: another sort
of prank to play!  Ha, as if Cleo could
"belong" to one man: sole ownership
of Cleo's a laugh!

Cleo's dress slips up to her belly - soft silky belly:
a pillow of the Gods belly! - as if by magic,
Passes over her head, is soon a heap of butterfly
wings by oak's trunk.  And her leg's shock white
against the green moss - her eyes smiling,
arms pulling me close.

But stridence ignites in the entanglement
of our tongues - I'm suddenly aswoon on waves
of rising hunger, seeking to keep abreast
of need's multiplication: Cleo's soft warm
mouth exhales sparkling undulation,
ripples my skin inside itself, as her fingers
ghost dance about my face -
dissolving face.

Her dark eyes become silver, pull me into
shivering blitheness: I fall inside their joy
while seizing handfuls of sleek skin.
So many sensations at once!  The sweet
sweat of her crackling hair and fragrant
petals of her lips - rose blossoms
bleeding into blurred air.

Rainfall quickens as Cleo's legs spread
and I slip inside her - plumb deep slowly,
and then accelerate - and then slow
again - her deep draws of breath
in rhythm to my probing as the rain
falls through the leaves - trickle
sounds and mercury flickers.

The smooth white of Cleo's legs pressed
against her chest (such a limber girl)
is as if glimpsed in hallucination -
and blurs as rain splashes through silvery
leaves dancing in breezes rising
about us clenched tight.

Cleo shimmers into purr sounds - throaty
coos, moans of bliss; her whole body
opens into a swoon into which I rush
with every spark of awareness - all
thought blurs in louder rainfall
as she squirms laughing.

Cleo's belly opens to drink me as I rain inside
her - and her eyes still drink me, pull me
freefalling into life's wellspring aglow
in their benign gaze.  My skin drinks
the sensation of rain splashing my back
and of Cleo's softness wriggling below;
and my eyes drink every detail
of her bliss-altered face.

Cleo smiles and her smile turns me inside out,
rains shimmers from fingertips to toes, all
over again.  The rain accelerates as we writhe
on the spongy moss: I glimpse buildings outside
the garden walls rising high enough
to kiss the clouds.

Rapture in the Sepulchre Forest

Why do I recall the day: Tuesday? - because
the dark flames of Cleo's eyes blazed
a brand upon memory, froze every detail
as plainly as if it's written text
I can read on a screen.

Tuesday years ago: Cleo's wavy tresses
are stirring swirls of vertigo into my chest;
the sight of liquid obsidian framing
her ivory face is like leaning over the edge
of a high balcony, imagining a fall -
that sighing and dying simultaneously
sensation: I can't help but flick my flingers
through her hair's crackling silk, swirl
it over my face, hunger for more.

Where are we?  Cimetiere du Montparnasse,
Paris, early afternoon: the play of emotion
on Cleo's cheeks outshines the writhings
of sun on the puddles at our feet -
the freshness of recent rain, air so clear
it's as if glimpsed in dreams, heightens
desire; and the presence of the dead
- proof of life's transience -
inspires daring.

Do we care if we're caught?  Life's
but a flicker of a dream, and all knowledge
as arbitrary as the dance of fallen leaves
on a stream!  So why not steal into
the sepulchre forest, and find one to hide
in - clasp and kiss and riot in?

Cleo's curves slip inside my eyes
like electric gossamer threads, twist taut
yearning into my muscles - sweet agony
swells my blood-flow; and my first
grasp of her wriggling behind - soft
and smooth as silk pillows - sends
surges of tingles to my head.

A sepulchre door is opened, and we glide
within - Cleo's eyes are sparkling mercury,
unseizable pools of excited light, and I press
her against the wall where the names
of the dead are engraved; and she presses
her bothered body against mine, transmits
her bloodbeat through every pore
of my touch-hungry skin.

Together we catch a wave impossible
to swim against, resist - not that we'd wish
to as we slip laughing to floor and writhe
in the dust.  Cleo's purple slip of a skirt
and white wisp of a blouse soon adorn
the iron wings of the dead family's
crest - my clothes skulk like scared
shadows where I've flung them -
and she and I embrace as if alone in bed
at home; and I seek to sink inside
her ripples of hunger, liquid
undulating skin.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust? - Cleo
and I wrestle on the dusty floor and ashes
cling to our sweat; I'm drinking the pink
between her thighs, she's tonguing
the length between mine.  A contest ensues:
can I maintain concentration - tingle
her flower with tongue and fingers
effectively - as her lips and tongue
squeeze scattershots of bliss
through my buoyant body?

Call it a draw: we forgo foreplay to couple.
Are cold marble floor's comfortable?  I'm sure
neither of us know: Cleo's lost in colors
of light passing through stained glass - desire
leaps towards fulfillment so forcefully
I lose the boundaries of my body, and only
want to fall deeper into the flarings
of her overflowing eyes.

The hard marble floor may be a bed
of flowerpetals, for all I know as Cleo's
erratic breathing beats rapture
into my racing blood and I turn inside
out inside her opening wide to drink
me as I swirl tingling into the bliss
of her all-embracing eyes.

Copyright  ©  2004 Robert Scott Leyse. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

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