Crimson Tide Time
Cornering me in the bedroom's corner, you say it doesn't matter
if the lunar clock is striking twenty eight;
we can set ourselves adrift, unpick the anchorage,
the tide turning for our pleasure.
The slide inside smoother, slicker, tonight;
oddly intimate, skin-to-skin, coral depths pulling you in.
The red wave gathers, breaks, slowly spills and seeps,
creeps down my leg; neither of us cares.
We're lost in lunar loving beneath a bloodstained moon.
Our bodies cling and cleave, braced against the heave
of the current, wave upon wave of carnal carmine;
plunging deeper into the red sea,
your urging surging through me,
pulsing forward with the flood of my blood,
wet, now, with the cochineal essence of me.
Scarlet secrets of the sea cave within;
each warm gush brings a fresh flush of lust,
as the red anemone of my womb
tenses to release rivulets of rubies
and my muscles contract redly around you,
swelling to hold you with a hotter grip.
We're maroon-mottled, musky with lust,
as the crimson current churns and swirls around us.
And we're surrendering to it, going with the flow,
our skin streaked with scarlet tidemarks,
slippery with passion's puce pattern,
as the sea sweeps a new sensuality ashore.
You're dizzy-drunk on my body's heady claret,
sweat-silvered and ruby-jewelled, as you slowly withdraw,
leaving a smattering of glistening garnets on the bedroom floor.