Original Photo :

I catch a scent,

That floats in the air,

The lust,

The decadence,

The yearning despair,

The sweet hint of sweat,

And dark visceral musk,

A forbidden perfume,

Yet the essence of trust,

Your breath,

Your whisper,

The tease of your touch,

All prelude the falling,

The need is too much,

Awash with the fire,

In the demons own lair,

The wait,

The want,

The almost there.



 Photo Copyright : hans van den berg


If I started to weep,

Would you ask me what’s wrong,

Would you open your arms,

 Make me feel I belong,

Would you wrap me in warmth,

And heal me with heat,

Would you kiss away tears,

Let my fears all deplete,

Would you let your hand fall,

And let it tease over skin,

Would you watch my chest rise,

Feel the hard nub within,

Would you lower your mouth,

To the bud that awaited,

And drink from the chalice,

Till your thirst had abated,

If I asked you for more,

Would you know what I need,

Would my sorrow be sated,

Would you let me concede.





Cherry moist,

Warm to the touch,

The velvety texture,

A whispered brush,

It begins a tease,

That slides o’er skin,

Increasing intention,

And exploring sin,

Tasting fire,

Infused on tongue,

Liquescent power,

The end has begun,

Temperature rising,

Expanding heat,

Pressure enhancing,

The need to complete,


Your kiss starts the fire,

That plunders my all,

Your taste is the toxin,

That destroys my control.

Your Kiss



A tease of lips that barely brush,

A scent of want, a forbidden touch,

A taste of honey that feeds the flame,

A thirst for danger and you’re to blame,


I yearn to feel your lips on mine,

I crave the fire that melts my spine,

That pools the want within my core,

That lays me languorous wanting more,


I want to drown within the depths,

And swim beneath my cautious breaths,

I want to trace my tongue on yours,

To escape the chains of common shores,


I need to know you feel the same,

To drink from you and taste your blame,

I need your kiss like I need my breath,

For without your kiss there is only death.



Come and converse,

In a language unspoken,

Leave me defenceless,

With a touch that is vocal,

Tease me with words,

That caress o’er skin,

The language of love,

And the accent of sin,

Engage me in rapture,

With semantic finesse,

And heighten my senses,

With the prose of excess,

Where teasing linguistics,

Abandon free will,

And the taste of expression,

Is the ink that you spill,


So come and converse,

And bid me confess,

That you are the author,

Of the needs I possess.

The Question

There is a question,

That is burning in my soul,

Giving me indigestion,

And stealing my control,

It’s lighting up the darkness,

With incandescent beams,

Trailing flames of radiance,

That scorches all my seams,


There is a question,

That is burning in my soul,

Giving me inspiration,

And freeing my control,

Words I have not spoken,

Remain a silent plea,

For caresses purely vocal,

Can only torture me,


There is a question,

That is burning in my soul,

Giving me stimulation,

That you alone control,

Tasting your intention,

Given by a languid touch,

Fuels the burning question,

Am I really good enough?