Bed Head

A poem inspired by this post by the adorable Lady Pandorah

http://ladypandorah.com/2013/11/10/good-morning-sunshine/

To the world you are immaculate:

clothes chic, unique; jewellery

just so, no more; make-up

merely defining what is

already there; and that

wonderful hair so

carefully coiffed—the

touchstone of your public self.

So I am blessed to see that hair so

beautifully dishevelled as your

flushed face emerges from the

rucked sheets, a sly smile on your

sweaty face, a faint

trickle of my pleasure

serving as lipstick.

Just Wipe the Mirror

The bathroom fills with steam

as your hands absently soap your body,

taking inventory : fat ass, flabby belly,

no tits, stubble.

But what if I were there with you,

pressing the evidence of my ardour into

your welcoming ass, caressing your

tightening belly, your incipient tits,

unaware of stubble in my urgent

lift of you out of the shower,

feet splayed on wet floor as I

bend you forward to penetrate,

urging you to see how beautiful you are by

just wiping the mirror.