Bunny's blog: "Excerpts and Poetry"

I wrote this poem awhile ago and just found it looking through my other pieces. I don't know what I want to do with it...it's not finished to me at all. I want my tongue to search every crevice of your skin to feel the trembling of your hands placed upon me and let my fingers wander up your neck and through you tousled hair Gentle tugs and caresses turn to more assertive action My thoughts being played out before me through the movement of my body Fluid, Strong, Decisive I work my way over you Your body I will conquer if only to explore again and again...

*I wanted to follow her to the bedroom, lift her out of the sailcloth skirt. So much stale time to sweep aside. Jasmine budding in the toothbrush glass, all the senses rush to love. We nudge our shoes away and touch lightly, in shivers, feeling each other with an anxious reverence, alert to every nuance of contact, fingertips, floating bodies. Dip and lift again, arms around her buttocks, my face in the swale of her breasts. I groan with the burden, she laughs in the night wind. A parody of ancient abduction. Tasting the salt moisture between her breasts. Thinking as I lumber toward the bed how rhythmic and correct this beauty is, this simple thing of curves, human surfaces, the shape those island Greeks pursued in their Parian marble. Noble though. The bed is small and set low, a swayback mattress hard at the edges. In time our breathing finds the same waver, the little cadence we will work to demolish. Some clothes slip off the chair, belt buckle ringing. The gaze of hers. Wondering who I am and what I want. The look in the dark I've never been able to answer...*

I love the way you look at me watching me while I write taking notes as to the textures of my skin studying these facial expressions and I pose for you deceiving the innocence of it all

*When it was over, all I could think about was how this entire notion of oneself, what we are, is just this logical structure, a place to momentarily house all the abstractions. It was a time to become conscious, to give form and coherence to the mystery, and I had been a part of that. It was a gift. Life was raging all around me and every moment was magical. I loved all the people, dealing with all the contradictory impulses - that's what I loved the most, connecting with the people. Looking back, that's all that really mattered. *

name the artist and you get a sticker These are not my own words. This is an excerpt from a work of art that I'm currently reading. "...This is not to be taken seriously, This is not to be read as opinions. It is to be read as poetry. Its obvious that I am on the educated level of about 10th grade in high school. Its obvious that thes words were not thought out or even re-read. this writing style is what I like to call thru the perspective of a 10th grader. her/his attempt at showing that no matter what level of intelligence one is on, we all question love and lack of love and fear of love. It is good to question authority and to fight it just to make things a bit less boring, butive always reverted back to the the conclusion that man is not redeemable and words that dont decessarily have their epected meanings can be used descriptively in a sentence as Art. True english is so fucking boring. And this little pit-stop we call life, that we so seriously worry about is nothing but a small, over the weekend jail sentence, compared to what will come with death. life isn't nearly as sacred as the appreciation of passion.