Ghost of Earth ©

Pleasure Closets

November 1, 2016 Poems, Word, Writing

Leaving remnants;
residual energy of pleasure
in private
& public places.

Pleasure kicked up
like a gold dust cloud;
suspended for hours
& hours after.

Wont someone
catch it;
taste the salt
gripping fingertips;
eat the quiet moans.

Take it home
or leave it
there.

Let it float
in it’s
non-being,
this ectoplasm host.

What is it
to be drunk
on pheromone?

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