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

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