sex

A SLING BACK TO SALLY. (MS. BOWLES, ONCE THE TOAST OF MAYFAIR ) AFTER ISHERWOOD.

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Guiltless, work less, here in this deep end, in this sling back
to the not-so-selective slung back, this slum, this time
of rebounds, of reverberations, KitKats and ghettos.

Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome…

to the deep end, where the guilt is less, less selective,
less to depend on, more flexible, less to wear, less of the weary
where we dive deeper, beneath the covers, below the uniform
while they march overhead, over the deep end
where we dived, dive, down to this dive

where the fingernails have grown green, decadence is divine

before death.

Where we say no…
no to depending on, no to marching, no to understanding,
no to guilt, no to work, more sex, more pineapples, Cliff, Chris?

Always something sweet before the shaft, before being shafted

here, in this deeper end, this sling back, slung, no slip to support
but this time (comes gullible) this time around. Maybe this time

I’ll be lucky, maybe this time… let’s see…

Life is Cabaret, old chum.
Life is a party, in bomb shelter, where we bring our own bondages.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

THE DEPTH UNDER THE MOON

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Moonlight
melts
languidly
on liquid lakes

like suds on dishes
like snow on windows

like thicker skin over age-old scars.

Moonlight
floats
momentarily
on rippling reflections

like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex

like the pain after parting.

Moonlight
flirts on the water

to divine
whether the depth

is worth the dive.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Repost for a week of Moons and Stars

AFTERGLOW

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Hunger harbours its hold
like a boat
bent on the scent of the sea
and we are bound
to the pull of its freedom,
its current crushing all caution
as we fall folly to its friction
on bended knee in benediction,
on beds of bodies bare and breathless,
tongues tempted towards taste,
buoyant on the bounce,
fast to the flesh, I want you,
you feel me, I will leave you
famished for nothing but more
and more and more, as I walk away,
still parched, still famished,
but never foolish
enough to linger longer
than the afterglow.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

LONGING; THE TASTE OF THINGS TO COME

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Tongues taste
our thoughts
when our thighs
twist and tumble,
when we slip
from sensible
to supple, shuffling
off our slips,
when lips lick lines
of longing, disrobing
desire from distraction,
curious to current caress,
covetous carried toward carnal,
slipping onto soft sheets
soon to be sweaty,
soon to be soiled
with that sensual scent,
soon to be hard, harder, hotter
(you had me at hello but you know that now).

Tongues taste
our thoughts
before we’ve even come
to embrace them.

 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

NO KNOT CANNOT BE UNDONE

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Day 21 National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo

Pulled are we
(OFF; no more)
from under and over
and pushed (panting)
by fleeting fate when we fail
to trust (when THRUSTS grow frail)
and the body rolls off, recoils
and the mind rethinks, returns. Let go,
did you, of that hand ONCE held
in that taxi ONCE, while thinking of another,
in that BED while sniffing out that longing
for SOMEONE missing while growing tired
of the taste of someone PAINFULLY PRESENT?
Fine is the line between decision and destination,
(that fine line that COMES quickly before it curdles)
between the CHOICES we make in a moment’s PLEASURE
and the paths that reposition our POWER.
Is it held by the BOTTOM or by the TOP?
We are FREE to release, (across your chest,
across our chains) we are free when released,
(emptied, exhausted) free from confusion;
untangled; no KNOT cannot be undone,
double negatives should never be done,
but we are UNDONE,
undefined or redefined,
reduced again
to that single state
of SELFISH.

                                MY, ME, I.

How quickly
we slip from tongues touching
all that is SACRED to a solitary scrubbing
of all that’s been SOILED.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

ON THE SHEETS

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And you
were gone
and we,
and you
and I
were off
and running
in different
directions,
in search of
subsequent
distractions

and you
were gone,
the day
unfolding
and duties
reasoning
chores into
realities
far from
the comfort
of beds
where bodies
were bare,
where tongues
touched thighs,
trembling,

where fingers
found flesh,
feverish,
where lips
licked
the lies
we tell
each other
that time
will last

and you
were gone
and I was
empty,
had been
emptied,
la petite mort,
unburdened,
lightened
by all that passed
in the passion
and parted
with the dawn
breaking,
with your sweet
sweat still
on my sheets.

All Words and Ink Drawing by Damien B. Donnelly

TRUST

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Trust me
as I thrust into you,
as we sweetly
split the space
within the identity
that we identify
and the disguise
that we discard in corners
where clothes are cast aside
for more carnal concerns,
born in beds soon to be
bruised and battered
as we bare bodies,
as we bend bodies bare,
tongues tingling to taste
the tender flesh
fresh for plucking.
We tumble and turn
in throbbing thrusts,
in tantalising teases, swaying
to the sweaty surrendering’s
between soon to be scented sheets
and shaking shadows, shy and silent
until I cannot tell
your limbs from my legs,
your hands from my hips,
your taste from my tongue
and in between
we slave and sleep,
and in between
we worry and work,
but before it all
we lay and linger
and before it all
we kiss and cuddle
and I curl beside you
above you, below you, inside you
and even in parting
I still feel your hold around me,
feel your breath upon me,
your scent within me…

Trust me
as I thrust
as I trust in you too.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

ONLY AFTERWARDS

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Screen Shot 2016-01-10 at 19.56.37

He tasted of pine
pressed into skin,
nicotine fingers
and beer bound breath
naked beneath
the fairy lights
and twinkling balls
as a cat and dog
watched their shadows
kissing on the walls.

She tasted of punch,
cinnamon sticks
and orange scents
with red rimmed lips
and bare naked breasts
to blush the baubles,
suspenders suspended no more
as the cat and dog
played with discarded clothes
on the floor.

New Year’s Eve
had become New Year’s Day
as she took him to her bed
to screw away the hangover
and reason out the resolutions.

It was only afterwards that she asked him his name.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

 

THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE CUNT IN CASUAL CONVERSATION

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We are gender bred, not born into who we are
but told forever after what we should become
by people, parishioners, preachers, pariahs,
parasites, philistines. He is boy not because
of an apple that long ago lodged itself in his neck
or a cock that swells so often by his bowels. She is girl
not because of the comforting curve of her form
or the coveted curiosity of her cunt. We are
the persuasions of a thousand teachers, telling us
tainted truths, a society of susceptible species
separated into sinners and sheep, the fornicators
and the followers, the wilful and the weak.
Would the world have withered if it was Adam
who asked Eve to eat the fruit, to bite his banana,
to sliver and slide along its shaft?
They say She offered Him that first succulent taste,
that delicious decent into the depths of deceit,
of hell here on earth. Would the She that she became
still have been seen as the serpent if the tale
had been twisted in other hands?
He can be action man, aviator, astronaut,
anything he wants. She is the princess, in the palace,
painting her nails, waiting for her prince to awake her,
revive her, alive her. He is Cock, craved and conquering,
she is Cunt, shunned and shamed. From his mouth
the cunt is the sweet summation of comfort
commented on in casual conversation. From her lips,
the cunt becomes a dirty thing, a degradation,
but cunt is a just word, a name given by living, breathing,
robbing, raping, hungry men. When will it be her word,
heralded for all its bounty? When will it be her strength,
her Cunt, just like his Cock, pecked, playful and proud,
worshiped not just for the warmth within its walls?

 

All words and Sketches by Damien B. Donnelly