One old and one a more recent post, but both are written superbly by my dear friend Candice Louisa Daquin! Enjoy how she weaves her magic by creating breathtaking imagery in these pieces filled with voluminous emotions and passion. Such talent keeps me flustered with pride. 🙂 

One such devoured moment

I am not overt 

even when good green absinthe is poured over 

a sugar cube 

the silver tongs holding 

sweetness just. 

I am not overt 

will not tell you of my sinning urge to 

strip you dear of clothing and chew 

the very mercy from you 

beneath my aching layers 

where frill and fancy and the soft cotton of 

longing 

lie on top of one another, spilling over 

in quiet crescendo. 

I’m not overt 

as you bend toward sunlight, creating a halo of 

light beneath your breasts and I see 

the coffee cream and the glory of 

all that I have ever desired 

drawn in chafed clamor. 

With reddened mouths, we 

empty our aching into indigo rivers 

for to release them 

and become that thing of wanting 

does not possess a language sufficient. 

If it did, I fear I would 

spend decades 

describing what it feels like 

to surrender to you,  feel the rounding 

of dark silver, begin to etch my spine 

its crescent capture, a moon within my 

shuddering limbs 

as we cascade over the other 

swimming like night swans 

oblivious to the beckon of dawn. 

I fear, should it be translated 

my throaty cries will be colors without 

meaning, a lake of pleasure, where finding you 

I sink beneath, without need of air 

your fingers playing me 

like a waterlogged flute 

for the merfolk who surely have 

no rest in their abandon. 

It is my greatest secret 

that you own my heart and I 

supplicate myself in yours, with the 

rosy thirst of a child seeking measure 

I find myself in the echo of you 

your fingers deep in me, striking urgent note 

sonorous and defeating sound 

together we listen to the rabbit stitch beat 

of our hearts, pressed in uttered motion 

as you enter my blood and I 

absorb a little more of you 

as suppliant as a beggar for your 

nectar. 

I fear should you ever not exist 

the part of me wedded to you in between 

the trees and through time would 

perish like starlight. 

For only you bid this girl 

alive like ancient wood-maker, setting finish 

the sound of us, abseiling into the other, our 

wordless joy, limbs bound, skin hot to touch 

this thimble of love vibrating its frequency 

out to lighthouses and beyond. 

Lost from you, I would be no more than 

a figment of what was, tortured by 

recollection, denied the warm sustaining of 

your cherished arms about me. 

I am not overt 

yet if I were, I should 

spill like a warm wax, the seal of you 

pressing permanently into my epidermis 

a shape of longing and need 

where mouths are elongated into song 

throats flung back in instrument. 

You inhabit me, as I reach for you 

cresting waves, growing barefoot dance 

a chant in time with quickening pulse 

your eyes black in half moon shade 

swish of violent love, simmering damp and lush 

I release to the witching smell of your 

skin surrounding us like points of 

flame in absolute blackness 

rising up, exhausting their burn 

falling down to rise again ever 

defiant and pleasured 

by the anonymity of their 

evoking spectacle 

as if I were alive 

only in that moment 

when you struck me 

bright with sulphur 

the sabotage of my sanity 

given willingly for one 

such devoured 

moment. 

Lemon rind lover

something so different stares me down 
in the bones of my face, murdering calcium 

I fear a change has come on me like death 

shifting all I knew previously into stones weighing down 

watching myself cut out of the pack with my own knife 

a wrong-headed empathy for cruel people becomes the epitaph 

we can stare at ourselves directly and see nothing of the future 

rushing through life, peering round corners 

how soon they show their true selves and the tar of their shriveled heart 

the slip from love to indifference, a hesitation gasping to spill her ache 

a handful of weeks pass and they advertise themselves to others like cheap meat 

for the next fool who scooping down, picks up their deceit like a fallen child 

in those instances, I wish for fangs and to be wild 

it seems more honest to tear your fucking throat out 

than help you understand why you are poison