your colour, much darker than my European skin, although
I have spent much of my life outside that continent, home for me
but the poetry I get when I take you
your skin, has patterns so fine, etching
pale water colour, reminding me of a Chinese painting
touching in soft way
your body, a real royal Spanish pleasure
you too, can accept so much
I want to take you again
your warm exterior, aroma of nature’s perfume
right from the night when the rain falls, the raw smell of earth
but I prefer you in early morning
your hygiene, not many are as clean as you;
I enjoy coming close to smell your rising heat
I can think of nothing else right now
your shape is perfect, smooth in my hand, in the right place
in most beautiful proportion,
crafted by a master, getting praise
I have met many like you;
here in the kitchen with cheap chair, rotund scar top table
harsh neon light not exciting me
come, let’s touch again,
my wife just phoned from the restaurant
she won’t be back for a time, but at the moment I don’t care
I prefer you in the morning, midday, early afternoon,
when you help me get out the oil of life
relax, tension free, taking away hot interior conflict
but the night alone; I cannot sleep with you
no matter how I try
night I’m alone, it won’t work out; sleep will pass me by
In the Orient, a man may unearth what he wants to see
one of the pleasures of life here is a pot of Chinese tea
I think another cup
