The beaches are dreaming

She leans into me,
 shoulder blade kisses
eyes and body speaking. quietly
awake. listening to the shoreline
come. and go. As
waves caress the beaches
It is a dream. We dreamers made it.
Wrapped ourselves inside palm branches,
   in the mist of the December currents.
Gave the meteors their ambition. Their trails
give my heart wander. lust.
Beyond these dunes, an amber moonrise
is waxing a path to our affections.
And.

The beaches are dreaming.

Of us.
We. became lucid silhouettes.
abandoning our gentleness,
behind canvas walls
loosing ourselves among each others' shadows.
hands tethered, she writes circle poems
comes. back to me.
feather tra(n)ce.
Sea shell pottery.
Shaping the night with our clay hands,
lips. breath. sculpture.  Installation art.ists.
And

The beaches are dreaming.
Of us.






Andrew Tipton

A mess

Soft light through linen curtains
ferns hanging from the windows
Swimming in an ocean of patchwork,
red quilts and tattered sheets,
My hands draped around your hips,
lips buried in the sweet mess of your hair,
chest pressed
Into the curve of your spine,
we wear each other so well.
I can't remember. ever,
Being more comfortable
with anyone,
or myself,
Or. So enlightened.
we are the exception to the rules of convention,
ive nicknamed you
paradox. artist.
your toes paint circles on my shins,
as I brush, stroke
your inner thighs


Andrew Tipton




Andrew Tipton

perfect bodies

Feathers from the Same Wing

I didn’t expect a woman like you. 
You amaze me.  I miss the taste of your skin.  Already after one day.  Already.
Crazy for you.  Again. 

I can’t help but
 wonder what drives you to be that way..
there is something in the clouds, guiding dreamers towards each
 other,  they float idly above us –
 watching as we make love and become fierce like lions.   They
 watch us come.  Alive.  Roar.   Watch us become circles  -  we
 never started,  we’ve always been.

feathers on the same wing.   

    I will never forget the way you looked at me
 when I turned around in the hotel lobby,  and I felt for the first time that you weren’t
 merely a splendid dream.   I looked into
 you.. into your eyes and past them, into the open wildness of YOU.     I
 whispered your name to myself as I closed that distance between us and kissed
 your lips..    As you reached for
 me,  I felt the weight of my body slip
 away,  I felt empty like a blue
 sky..  perfect. 

I felt like laughing
 forever.  

We were the center of the moment..  the navy and silver splendor of the that room
 melted away into a glow,  I could see
 nothing but your much-ness. 

   I won’t forget laying you down, watching the New
 York street lights dance from the open window, across your breasts and the
 gentle curve of your hips,  watching the yellow
 reflections of taxi cabs and the expanse of the city flicker in your eyes.    YOU.  were an ember wrapped in white sheets..  burning my mind with wonder.  I could kiss you forever.   Everywhere.


Feathers brought you across an ocean to me.. 
for the night.   Riding on
 wings.   


Andrew Tipton

On A Canvas

Takes off. His shirt in the museum. Bee. cause he loves the touch and scent of canvas.
Her mind Is. Painted with his mouth, with words she sometimes takes out
and bathes with.
In my eyes, we are stretched taunt, between wooden posts,
waiting. for the brush strokes to find our bodies.
Our existing. Also a canvas.
SO he loves the scent and touch of US,
of our hope and confusion. and
the Polaroid selfportraits on February nights. Here
I am. Yours. Where she goes to paint her thoughtfulness.
Undress. and
let loose her creation. juices.

Mm. And she. Uh.
She, uh, her painted heart, the way to the paint is a brush up the skirt.
She knows her eyes are closed. And she is breathing his breath.
Certain times the shoes on the floor that walk by are different from the others,
they are the same each time.
Guard. Museum. Guard.
Her minds can almost wonder each time if they will say something.
But she can not care. His mouth in her hair
his Hand on her skirt ass neck breath.
She IS the centuries old colored oil on the walls,
he is The hard paint on every canvas.
THEY are a sculpture.
Their art drips from every tip. They see them selves in the corner mirrors of the porcelain room as he Turns her head,
lifts her mouth to his and eats,
the Last Supper.
They are the Master piece.



A. Tipton_ T.Fullum.

Palm Reader

The evening air makes sense,
I pull away and feel lightness, as if.
To be. A sparrow or a raindrop.
How do the imaginary birds on our pages take
to our February hearts?
Believe me when I say life comes to life
beneath her
fingertips.
Creating the texture and beauty even on the plainest
mornings
Paper tigers in her hands,
paper sacred feathers
she makes them play and dance.
Each I have felt on my lips.
slender and deliberate
like the hum of honey bees
like the path of a summer storm.
Trace them with my breath,
her palms
stretched wide,
wondering and reading the stories in the lines,
I often recite your quotes.
Along my shoulder harness,
to my neckline,
on my chest plate,
down the mounds of my vertebrae.
one by one.
I count your fingertips on my lips,
rose petal
jungle flowers.




Andrew Tipton

The details

The moment before we kiss you always look at my lips.. and I love that.
.. I like the way you can't remember words, while I'm stroking you.
Your fingers love one particular curl in my hair..
When we see each other, I like the sexy smile you always try to hide.
You love to have your lips licked. So do I.
I love it when you 'accidentally' forget to wear a bra.
When we dance, I love kissing you.. because it makes people jealous that we can dance and that we are kissing.
The stove in my van is still dented from your bottom.
I remember winning your kiss in a game of pool.
I remember losing a game of pool and still getting your kiss.
You change things about yourself quietly.. I love that.
You are always game for random acts of sensuality.. So am I.
I love how you look in my shower in the afternoon.. wet, and covered in sunlight.
You stare at me when you think I'm not looking.
I stare at you when I think you're not looking.



Andrew Tipton