—
N2O
Fingers curling around the leather of the steering wheel,
thumb drawing up and down,
right hand on the shifter.
Engine racing, feet shifting, I can’t stop thinking.
I see you in my mind’s eye -
standing at the front of the room,
blue work shirt, wide shoulders,
belt slung around your waist.
You’re talking about our numbers,
instead I hear Maynard’s voice and the
drums pounding their carnal beat.
I am most
cer - tain - ly
not thinking about work.
I squirm in my seat and hope you don’t notice.
Your eyes meet mine, I guess you did.
How I really want to see you is
with your button down shirt untucked.
I want to be the one unbuttoning that shirt,
lips burning hot on your neck, tongue tasting your skin;
feeling your rumble of appreciation against my lips.
I want to bite the skin at the curve of your neck and collarbone.
I want to hear your indrawn breath and feel the evidence
of your desire pressed to my abdomen. Feel your hands
pull me in, make my back bow when you press me to you
capturing my lips, force me to the tips of my toes.
Hear the crisp hush of my button down
sliding from my skin, watching your eyes
devour what is underneath. Lace and shadows,
watching the blood flush my skin pink.
Coerce surrender from my throat, tear my passion from me.
I’m waiting for your flame - frustrated and ready to burn.
Newton Was Right (Words by Phenix-Noire)
I was flying high,
everything going my way;
unaware that the karmic downswing would be a killer.
The fall was crushing;
the arc to destruction nothing less than
mathematically elegant.
An object in motion tends to stay in motion
unless acted upon by an outside force.
Stay in motion, Girl.
The upward climb is hard
pulling that weight on your back,
but learning how to laugh as I ride the karmic tire swing was worth it.
(Source: twocubes, via perpetual-inspiration)
—
Red light.
Music bumping.
I should probably turn it down, but here You come
in that sexy muscle car, rumbling Trouble in the lane next to me.
Hello Flame, I’m Moth. I’ll be incinerating myself on you tonight.
I’m probably offending the Mom in the caravan behind me.
(I should care. I don’t.)
These tinted windows bring out my Naughty.
Your engine grumbles its approval,
I can’t resist and purr in return.
I see your head turn my way.
My lips curve, that sideways smirk that means T-R-O-U-B-L-E for the opposite sex.
My inner imp takes over and pushes the window down a bit,
just enough so you can see my eyebrow raise up in challenge.
I see the light across the way turn: orange ….. red.
Green light. Go baby, Go.
Oh, yes - I did just look over at you.
Catch me if you can.
Let’s play, Flame.
Dubstep Nirvana
The full moon hangs heavy over the city skyline.
beautiful and pregnant,
she sways her way across the early morning sky.
I am wrapped in sable shadows,
headlights gliding through the night -
an 8 cylinder comet chasing dawn across the horizon.
Dubstep keeping metronomic time;
electric sex,
setting the pace,
lighting my heart aflame as I bleed energy
across the freeway.
I’m one of many, a single
dot
of light, a pixel dancing on the brink of dawn.
Her sister, eager as always to steal the show,
starts lighting fires on the horizon.
But I?
I favor the night. The feeling of an engine racing,
one hand on the wheel, the smooth interplay between
foot, clutch, and gear shift.
Pistons pumping, music calling cadence,
breeze blowing past my open window.
Heaven.
Another dinner meeting.
It wouldn’t matter except I’ve
been up since 4 am.
I’m sipping my glass of red,
listening to the men
congratulate themselves on being
Masters of the Universe.
I feel your heated stare from across the bar.
I pretend to be engrossed in their conversation.
I throw back my head and laugh at some small joke,
extending the line of my neck so that your greedy eyes drink it in.
My movement turns sinuous as I draw the glass up to my lips,
there was no drop of wine left on the edge, I licked that for You -
watching your eyes burn as you watch my tongue dart out.
My smile turns soft and knowing, my eyes half-lid themselves;
my coworkers think I can’t handle my wine. Silly boys -
they’re missing the game that’s underway.
I’ve already won the business deal from the careless details Glenlivet’s
made them drop. I’m playing a different game tonight.
This one’s a game of teeth and necks, heated gasps and hands under
skirts, fingers brushing inner thighs and my sharp breath in your ear.
I bite the edge of my lip and glance your way. Check, dear.
Shall we Check Mate?
Photo credit: Twisting through the night (by jimberneike)
Fragmentation - Words by Phenix-noire
.
It’s far past quitting time
when I make it out to my car, quietly gleaming,
glittering a menacing black in the hush of the garage.
He sits and waits, smirking to himself;
knowing, what’s coming next.
I ease into his scent of dark leather, sighing.
Letting it enfold and soothe me.
The music switches on.
Flight 2626, the runway is yours. Cleared for take-off.
We merge out onto the freeway, joining the
thousands of fireflies, rocketing home.
I give into his temptation and let my foot increase its pressure,
just to hear his throaty growl.
My lips curve and we join the myriad pixels,
disappearing into the night.
(via hoer-doch-uff)
—
Gunpowder
Tonight…
I am reckless.
Revving.
All eight cylinders firing.
Looking for Trouble to match my own.
I am gasoline - got a light?
Your eyes are sparking,
a grin is breaking across your lips,
matching my sideways smirk.
You’re rising to my challenge, aren’t you, Sugar?
We’re going to end up crashing into my foyer wall tonight.
Hands fumbling,
Breath catching,
Legs on hips,
Clothes pushed aside and torn,
My teeth at your neck,
Your hands in my hair.
Cries staining the air.
What was that you were saying about being good?
Algunas Veces (Sometimes)
Algunas veces
me canzo de ser tan buenita.
Algunas veces
quiero tener algien
que me quiere
mas que su mismo.
Algunas veces
quiero gritar al
cielo que no quiero
estar sola mas.
Algunas veces quiero
que algien me
entiende.
Abandoned
Like a book forgotten under a bench,
I waited.
You never came.
(Untitled)
I am tired
of
always
having
to
be
strong.
Sometimes I slip into my
mother tongue just so that I can vent
and no one will judge me because they
can’t understand.
Bruises
You said you would build with me.
I built alone, without a safety net,
certain you would be there to catch me.
You changed your mind.
I stare at a half-finished shell,
wondering why I bothered to invest myself.
Bruises on the soul
form from this
painful
lesson;
stark purple-black against pale
naive skin,
fading to ugly yellow.
The shade of
unfortunate
lessons
learned.
Damn.
Scars
Like unexpected speed bumps -
I stumble across puckered,
reddened,
skin.
A
reminder
of
hopeful expectations
gone
wrong.
Metamorphosis
She is adorned in flowers,
covered in vines;
hair the color of chestnuts in a winter fire
tumbles free, in wild abandon to tickle her spine.
She has no use for jewels, rather -
her neck is circled with a carcanet of morning glories.
Skin as pale as the moonlight,
except for where the Sun has pressed His lips to it;
her irises are black pearls in the ocean depths of her eyes.
Butterfly wings hang from her ears,
while spider silk holds all of her broken pieces together.
Turquoise and gold threads stitch her back into place, while
crimson ribbons trail from her wrists to flirt and flutter in the breeze.
She’s weaving herself a chrysalis,
painstakingly twisted together from all the lies
and sharp-edged shards of a wasted life.
Soon now, so soon - she’ll slip in and sleep.
And she’ll dream of a better life, of the one to come - -
of course she will - she’s never stopped dreaming.
Pointless
Aching throat,
breaking heart.
Wishing for comfort from
someone who only ever
starved
me.
You’re incapable of
loving,
giving,
remembering,
Anything.
I heard you blame me
for this slippery slope we fell down.
I tried to stop us
But it doesn’t work when there’s only one person trying.
Damnit.
Oeuvre
Crumbling edges of ancient paper.
The smell of ink rising in the air.
Firm hands on hips, lifted onto a tabletop.
Skirt fluttering, heart hammering, legs parting.
Lips bruised, fingers tangled in hair.
Exhaling passionate notes into the hushed tones of the room.
Baudelaire, Neruda, Lorca - silent witnesses to the brewing tempest.
Arching body, frantic hands, urgent lips at the line of His neck;
White teeth nipping at a thundering pulse, whipping it higher.
Arms wound ‘round a neck and shoulders;
Twining softness against steel, a Liana vine against a forest giant.
Papers dropping to the floor, long hair- a fallen curtain, lying in moistened curls;
Small hand pressed to a racing heartbeat.
Oh, the wicked stories those books could tell.
