IN WANT OF EROTICA

by Eric Nunnally

Behind the veil of your hesitation
I know the beauty of your arousal,
the soft blush of sudden senses,
and the warmth that is innocent of
sin.

Impropriety is undefined there,
where fever may impassion fires
and produce such thirst as may
be quenched with but one drink,
or so one might think...

Your lips: already parted,
tremble for words undiscovered
to mouth the bud of feeling at its
root...

Your thirst becomes insatiable.

Infected with the sweet poison of
unsolicited affection, one could die
neglecting to examine one's injury;
such is the nature of this opium.

"come naked before me
who would dare present himself a god to you
and beg your forgiveness and admiration
torn between inspiration and aspiration;
come naked before me
that I might be tempted."

Dare: bare your want -
for what art supplants sincerity
and what nature imitates art?

But more than that:

my carnality eels through the darkness
heavier, more viscious: it has your scent.
Claws unsheathed, its third eye awakens;
I see you underneath and would betray that
sacred pleasure
to penetrate your resistance and wrench
from your soul,
such sublime
utterance
...


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REFLECTIONS

by Eric Nunnally

like some rebellious pressure
so wanting life -
whose eruption I dared not express
for fear of losing mine
to create another -
my desire fought to be born;
struggled furiously against such reasonable suppression
as would bespeak prior commitments;
it caused heart boils and flash floods of
emotion, sometimes flushing my face
and overwarming my entire being...

and it did not help that your eyes caught mine
and I saw more than just looking going on;
even the mirror betrayed our mutual interest
so that I was ashamed to confirm
what my heart so desperately seemed to want
and looked away, afraid
of smelling your hair, kissing your neck, holding you in my arms...
of not knowing what to do...

afraid not of being discovered of my fondness for you
for I am sure such opinions are no rarity
rather, afraid of improprieties intimated by
these eyes mesmerized by some desideratum
found in you.

and though my soul begged your nearness
I could not allow it
for how could I explain falling in love with you
(I do not say it to discount your lovliness);
and what death might heaven plan for me
on tasting your nectar and favoring its flavour
over the fruits of my own garden?

it most often seems so hopeless and
so pitiful of me to even entertain the fantasy
that there could somehow be something
(and that so achingly desirous) between us...

so I am left to invent one million ways to curse myself
with words, attempting some elusive magical phrase
that might transform your heart and my world
and somehow create a new tree of life
for not to dream is to give up life...

ELIZABETH

by Eric Nunnally

My lovely bouquet of spoiled beauty
whose lips have never tasted the flavour of this passion,
forgive this - my desperate assumption
that you might remember the softness of my infatuation
pressed against your hand -
the warm blush of color in your face
and breast.


Will thou waste thy petals on ungentle hands
and wilt in the lustful heat of prematurity
how spite you my displeasure in never pleasing you
In my practice of love, for what is life but love,
and if not love, what then?
but not that practice makes perfect
for there are many who are practiced
and none who are perfect;
I have kissed souls
drank deeply the essence of shame and fear
and stolen the illusions of romantacy

it seems I have forgotten thee
attempting at some seduction with all vanity
my words dipped in hearts blood too feathered
for the wind they flew upon
Has it been so long
that you forget my poetry
that you are unremembered of my poetry
I have forgotten you
Is there no passion

There are subtleties I cannot convey
I fear you are numb to my delicate desires
immune
and find my incendiary passions vulgar and repugnant
Oh sweet melancholy
that suffering should bear
such sensitivity to passion
in this waiting
is there no tragedy
do not keep from me our destiny
do not withhold that which you would give
tomorrow is not promised and I would taste your tenderness of heart
never hide yourself from me
you have hidden from me your happiness
my bouquet of spoiled beauty
as the flame will tickle the air
perhaps it is too lovely and bright
to appreciate - to really feel
music is like hypnotism
in dark hours
am I drawn to the flame of remembrance
may I enjoy your silence
Oh that you would love me
that way you long to be loved.