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

cryptic

the candles are burning low
enough
only revealing the sweat clinging
in the curve of your hips,
the
silhouette of your bare breasts,
and
the strands of your hair
feigning modesty,
on our backs beneath the netting,
side by side,
fingers stroking,
thunderstorm,
howler monkeys,
palm branches,
tree house
fuck, the rain
forest.
I want to stay inside
you
all morning.
trace your Costa Rican tan lines
with the gentle ferocious of my lips,
spread you
open
your eyes and legs,  wide
awake but its like a dream
here
alone with you.
I feel your obscenity,
your thoughts escaping through shortened breaths,
your hands and tongue,
circling, drifting, caressing
lower
gripping, stroking, conjuring
my masculine
desire. 
I am throbbing
in your grasp. 
these weeks of solitude
have left
me
ravenous
for you,
the stormy raging beneath your eyes,
the cryptic whispers of your mouth,
your fearless
your innermost
desire
 to be wrecked,
torn to pieces
with animalistic affection,
the rain
is our witness,
the ocean watches
with guilty fascination
as
my muscular body
instinctually pins you
beneath me, 
your wrists and throat
clutched,
mounted,
our sweat mixing,
as alchemists,
our eyes tethered with wild
unbroken
intensity,
your back arching,
your mouth ever so slightly,




Andrew Tipton

Reading the Tides

my love(r). 
it seems the tide has left us
castaways.  adrift in each other's presence.  
we have the beach to ourselves. 
the southern sunset winds playing games with your hair.  now
the forests of mangroves - melt into a single undulating shape.
  suspended.   hammocks.  linger
and we too.  in them. 
   your skin is pastel, delicate. 
 hidden beneath the shadows
of passing clouds,  late.  afternoon sunlight falls itermittantly upon your face
and between your eyes.
 inspiration for the heart.
your fingers loosly brush. your cheeks blush
as I stroll
along. 
by the way.   your name looks lovely scrolled
along my pages.
   we write each other down. 
and I take notes.
   of the way your lips seems to pry me away from my solitude
of the way.
your laugh reminds me of navy blue. jellyfish. dancing..
    waves spread from your lagoons


Andrew Tipton
    
 

The Voodoo

I'm fifty stories up
screaming at the moon over Vegas,
ROARING.  with a whiskey in a fist.
sprawled out before me, like an eager gift
for my mouth
licks it up, laps the juice off the neon signs
totally nude
she asks to join me. and then I do. 
I have no use for these blaring lights
or your fascination
with sex. you all
will find that there is muchness buried here.
tucked away in the ballrooms and in
the tattoo shops.  where dancing turns
into affection, and affection
into love.
I only want to chew the stains off my
collar tonight
and breed
contempt for the girls
walking, heels in hand
their dirty bare feet
 scraping the pavement. 


Andrew Tipton

The Waves on 38th

when we met
I imagined you soaking wet. 
pale skin, unbleached
hair. breasts and the perfect shape
for an imagination. 
red tangles, 
and yerba matte tea.
steam. 
coffee house sex.ual
thoughts. like civil wars  
you have caused inner conflict.
in me.
here I am,  the dissolved
fierce, quiet, and sleepless,
choked on the lessons
of hope and losing to vast open spaces.
I want to disappear into the mists
and yet you bring me back
for a second cup. 
I see through your eyes, these
eyes hide your truth.  that you
were born like me, to rule
and not be infinitely dormant.
you know this,  and you wear it like a scar on your inner wrist.   
unsharpened. yearning for an edge. a cut.
I want to puncture you. 
spirit animal. asleep. dreaming
of itself.  the day, it wakens to belief:
  stretches her wings.
  spreads her legs,
  licks her mouth
  in front of me.  for me. toward me. 
I called you
out.
to the sea. see me.
in my state of obstinate happiness.
we're both going to play
like lions. 
Aries surfer fire starters.
the ocean is a blaze.     
your violence is inevitable.
these waves are frightened
because of us. 
and it pulls
the gravity out of my shoulders.
back into my soul.
I am falling.
again. in my love affair
with the universe. 




Andrew Tipton

now, that I know you

I remember,
someone said you looked beautiful
and I laughed
because you seemed,
only beautiful. until we met,
I didn't know you wrote poetry
or
that you could speak
about greatness with your knees
tucked under your chin.






Andrew Tipton