The Pickup

Here it is, my first foray into poetry...

Enjoy.

THE PICKUP

Air. Fresh air. No longer can bear

The stifling confines of a smoke-filled,

Cheap thrilled, neon bathed cave of 

Sweaty sinew and pound-pound-pound

Drowning sound of rhythm and bass;

The air out here is sweet to taste.

I breathe deeply, freely, gladly,

Ears buzzing madly from 

Numbing noise within; electro-clash din arousing

Bodies to thrash, muscle to flash,

Throbbing crimson glistening on flesh

Exposed to attract, dared to distract.

The phasing pulse recedes as I fall

Into a dizzying corridor of brick and mortar

Mind in slaughter, chemically crazed

I perceive another in my space, dead ahead

Posed with masculine grace,

Breathing fire, illuminating a face of pure desire.

This vision of perfection commands my stare,

Silhouetted there; t-shirt, jeans, torso tight,

Sweating from the fight in the madhouse, 

Released to rest, to burn his lungs 

A creature no longer young yet commanding time.

Presence of prey perceived; eyes flash into mine.

Arrested in stupefaction, body turned stone

Under a Medusa stare, deadly attraction. 

Wordless beckoning, our flesh and bone, 

Fraction by fraction close in proximity. 

With motionless traction the walls draw in 

To entomb, we twins in a concrete womb.

Aching lava scorches my veins, fire searing 

My brain, base hunger fuels my sex,

Anticipating his touch, inches away,

Craving to be enmeshed in firm flesh, 

Bodies to combine, flex, sway,

Lapped in waves of sweet lust; to play.

Peeled away from the trashed neon mass

From the heat and noise retired

Us, me and him, poised to commit

The most ecstatic sin.

The synaptic pistol has fired.

Let the games begin.

© 2012 Lance Eggleton