Kore

The smell of soap and smoothness.
The jet of eyes shone through me.
The lick of porcelain and
a wetted lip of beauty.
A typing through the window.
A sense of ever prescence,
a statue of a fated king.

I watch and catch an epic tale within her motions.

A sip of milky coffee
to slide inside the wet throat.
A note of post contention.
I cry as though in hunger,
a gaunt and bony casket,
and on the desk before her
arrays of ever prescence
are staged like watermarks of thought.

Lick tongues, it tastes of wonder.
Her legs so strong and upright.
Olympic fields asunder,
and I like echoes falter.
I wish that I could be her,
inside that naked body
and be involved in fantasies.

And as the vista pixellates into
70's disco thud, but love
and I heard laughing inside my head
about the budgets of the titles,
and now that Harold Shipman is dead
a net of closure like a web descends.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.