I can’t say I haven’t considered it,
Your cold white thighs sliding open
as easily as a book falling to the floor.
A book of poems, of sketches of stretched contorted faces.
But I too often stride waste deep,
Or shoulder deep upon occasion,
Through the mists of impatience and lust.
Too often I fall victim to the
Siren’s song, the cuckoo’s call.
Not tonight quietless one.
Tonight I will not be drawn by any tacit cacophony.
Your woe filled lamentings fall upon ears
Deafened by emotion and
Stoppered up by the belief
That good things come to those who wait,
And those who wonder.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
this is extremely sensual. it makes me shiver, good job.
Ben, wow, the images here actually disturbed me a bit they were so vivid. I love the boldness of the speaker at the end. Interesting. Happy New Year! K
I have fallen for this. I have it on my board next to my writing desk. I have quoted it several times and of course used your pen name as the sited author. Please write more of the Sirens?
Dear all,
Appologies for the lateness of this reply.
Let me merely say that your comments both flatter and illuminate me.
Thank you
B