Poetry by AJ Heard

© 2001 AJ Heard

© A. J. Heard
February 2000

How many words will fill a mile?
What is the distance between
the thought of your body next
to mine and the sticky heat
between my thighs? The sound
of your voice and the touch
of your hand?

If I fill this page with words
will that cover the distance
to your heart? Bring your body
close to mine again, where I
can feel the breath of your
exclamations on the back
of my neck?

Words. Words that march along
the curve of my spine, covering
the warmth of my flank, getting
tangled in wiry curls on moons,
and mired in syrupy slickness between
neither lips. A Mona Lisa lie smile.

Words that light the path to the soul,
underlining insecurities, exposing
longing and need. Imperfect words.
Should I use more, or turn snake
like with tail in mouth and devour
all I've ever written or said and we
can start again?

What can I do to stretch, to reach,
to cover that distance that grows,
a yawning maw, between us?

Tell me, can I touch you again?
LONGING (For Christian)
© A. J. Heard
January 2001

Sitting on that concrete block
Holding the canvas canopy
Under which we sheltered
From the rain, I wanted you.

I wanted you right then, right there,
even surrounded by curious strangers,
who walked by with prying eyes,
as I leaned into your warmth, wanting
to be vulnerable to your touch.

Aching for the feel of skin exploring
skin as we pressed our bodies together,
a physical prayer, your soft kisses
stirring embers I had carefully banked
against fear of disappointment.

Shamelessly I responded, a hot twist of want
Curling within, leaving behind a residue
That reverberated inside the rest of my evening.
LEAVE ME (For Christian)
© A. J. Heard
February 03, 2001

I want to touch you
so deep you’ll never forget,
not even when you sleep.
You’ll feel the heat, sweltering,
sticky, like New Orleans in July
or August. A miasmic funk
covering all your dreams, calling
your want to rise in a tidal wave
of longing. For me.

I want to be closer to you than your next breath,
inscribe my name across your id . . . in declaration.
I am here!

I have given myself to you, a gift
of many parts. Flesh and bone, imagination,
heart and lust. I prepare myself in a ritual
of magic and desire, Eve and the Serpent
now one. A sensuous spiral of wit and sexuality.

You tease me—Now I see you, now I don't.
Keeping me on arousal's tip toes, loosing
"trepidation, a low slung bitch" to nose
inside my mind, leaving narrow trails
of anxiety behind.

I want you to give me your heart,
drown in my kisses, take my intensity,
and wear it like a second skin,
and then, leave me. So I can look
forward to doing it again.
© A. J. Heard
February 5, 2001

Want claws inside skin
heart beats beneath passions fangs
feral unrestrained

Devours blood and bone
juicy offering inspired
exquisite release

Whip kissed, want unfurled
feasts on fleshes pleasures' pain
leather kisses sate

Limbs restrained,
love play
indolent licentiousness
delicate freedom.
© A. J. Heard
February, 2001

The taxi driver liked the show
as I climbed out onto the curb.
Climbing up on those 4 1/2 inch heels
my legs seemed to go on forever.

Legs that carried me into Jezebel's
through a gaping maw, a mouth
into a blue and black cavern,
as two men walking by stopped to watch.

Approaching the stairwell, I feel every muscle
from my ankles to the tender spot just above
the cleft of my ass. My ankles and inner
thigh muscles, working overtime.

Slowly undulating down the narrow steps,
feeling like some kind of showgirl wishing
there was someone here to appreciate
the show, I descend into a sea of layers,
emotions, like geological periods exposed
in a dig.

Red room, another dimension,
like a door to hell. DI lighting
reflects off ruby walls. A curious
effect, obfuscating vision, making it
impossible to remember faces clearly
after a few drinks, with any certainty.
The perfect rendezvous.
©A. J. Heard

He made me drunk with lust,
lost in a fog of desirous rut,
nerve endings twitching, burning
with an itch that needed
to be scratched. Constantly.
A lust, that reached out
and touched better than AT&T
could ever have imagined or designed.
For the first time, my appetites
were given their due,
or so he led me to believe.

Now, two years later,
nerves like fine filament,
mangled and burnt out,
still try to connect.
All poems © 2000-2001 by A. J. Heard. All Rights Reserved. Used here by permission of the author. Do not reproduce or distribute without expressed written consent from the author.
A. J. Heard is a frequent contributor to Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, Adult Story Corner, and Saucebox. She has been published in Stapelgunn Press, La Gazette, Ellen Bass' "Writing About Our Lives" series as well as Blue Food literary journal. She also has a story featured on Suspect Thoughts through March and will have a story in Bill Brent and M. Christian's forth coming GUILTY PLEASURES 2. At present she lives in Santa Cruz, California with her ten cats, but has plans to move to Santa Fe, New Mexico, while also wanting to live in San Francisco, California. At the same time.
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