Metaphorical.

.I crave more than warmth.
..  I want the belly of the moon,
the soft sheer glow,
the immense dripping edge of the night's darkness and the sky's unyielding heat.. 
I want to be the sweat clinging between their thighs, and as they fuck,
I want to hear God swearing
with a tremendous snarl,
his voice echoing from the tips of the Northern lights,
cascading around me as I melt into thousands of heavy droplets. 
I want calligraphy for skin and a lion's bloody, dusty mane for a voice.
    I want to witness everything seamlessly, where time becomes nothing.
I want to watch  jellyfish riding mighty percherons through the deserted valleys of West Blocton.
I want to protectively stroke the fine hair of a baby child with my fingertips.  
I want relive the dreams of my youngness. 
The squirting splendid dreams of rustic cabins.
  I want to kiss the banks of oceans with my strudy feet, and study archeology and alchemy until I am very old.  
Scouring for the bones and relics of our abandoned truths. 
Holding them up with fragile hands, quivering with rage and hardened affection.  
Myself and my thrusting heart..  neither kneeling nor perishing calmly.


Andrew Tipton

Ocoee

Her fingers
interlaced with mine, 

gently perfectly

skin, silhouetted by the remaining embers,
the sheen and freckles of sweat
nestled between perfect breasts,

warm sweet breaths
lingering against my roughened throat,
  
bare lips. the sparkle of the eyes.  the slender arch of cheekbones.  

 music
 intermittently,
drifting upwards
 through the branches of Tennessee pines,

bare feet upon soft dirty earth,
hands clutching waists,
nudity,
moonshine,
laughter, silence,
the hum and chant of summer crickets,


slow, rhythmic, sway,
dancing
beneath the stars,
among the timbers. 

only us,
our deepest versions,
our perfect rugged selves




Andrew Tipton

Watching the Ocean in the Morning

Your hands in the morning
the soft tips of your fingers,
the treading of your nails and bare palms,
oh my god / across my flesh
standing there in front of the window
ocean view,
crushing waves, and
thunderstorms,
lingering before you, 
my body erect and tall
your fingertips arch
stroking with steady intention
the muscles of my legs,
tenderly,
my inner calves,
the deep interior of my hips
achingly
my collar bones, down my untrimmed chest
delicate scratches,
perfect wounds,
carnivore,
riot,
claymore,
chinchilla,
the wisps of your hair
teasing,
tresses ravaging my purpose,
your breath,
lingering patches of warmth,
my skin is blacking out from the pleasure,
shuddering beneath your touch,
my heartbeat is a audible throb,
as we watch the ocean
together,
your hands in the morning
playing god,




 Andrew Tipton

I would write songs with you

I would write songs with you...
could we... write...
And while we are lost in the pages...
Could my poison be filling you
Between
Your legs..  the juices
Flowing ..  up inside. 
While we are teasing the paper..  with our ink.
Could I.. 
Lay a notebook on your stomach..
While I lick stories around your
smooth slit..
your panting.. wet
treasure.  
Could I talk to you
of Tolstoy..  or the Leaves of Grass
while your eyes meet mine..  
hold my gaze while I grasp your hair
and your mouth
wraps its lips,
embracingly
 around my shaft.. 
laps.. the throbbing
want of you..
    calls me..
gnaws my masculine with your sharpened teeth
bite.. stroke... lick.. bite..
Slave girl.
Philosopher..
Goddess..
Lover...
Traveler..
I want to tie you to your elegant bed
The four corners
hands and bare feet
and feed you...
Sway..
against the pale softness of your skin
In.
And.
Out. 
Our eyes rediscovering each other
our truest condition..
Tethered. Tied. Ravaged.
Tortured.  Relentlessly.
I want to bend you into the darkest corners of yourself.
And hold close to you.. so you know I am there with you.
I want to devour you.
without mercy or fragile civility. 
and make you hurt
ache
suffer. 
So you know we are the same one.

And our eyes never stop speaking..
never stop searching into each other..

I tremble with the thought of you
tonight.  




Andrew Tipton

Summer in the Mountains

When you look at me,
I feel the adoration of god
upon my face, 
I feel wholesome,
reckless and known,
there is this subtle quietness
raging
behind your eyes..
like the sensation of being tousled in a wave,
and
feeling the blue thoughts of the ocean
playing games,
sincere and curious,
if
you believe me, and are not afraid
lets
build tipis in Nebraska together,
I have longed to spend summer in the mountains.  









Andrew Tipton