Nectar & the Tonality of Sex

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Image credit: Rachel Shannon
Image credit: Rachel Shannon

There’s a river in France called Touch…

I’d hoped to have seen you there with your hands spread

Memories of you & I skipping town, dodging clotheslines with the pant legs

Your hair kept like rose vines with the strands red

The nights we’d toast wine but demand less

Life was so fine. Our souls scribed in the grand nest.

Water on the coastlines where the land met

The cold, vibrant, entranced depths

We sat on park benches like old timers – I glanced left

You were the jewel of my eye, a gold mine that enhanced flesh

laying like two tigers on sand crests


The name of a commune; the moniker also applied to you

Pleasant to touch, we nestled in the hunkered down bayou blues

Sighing too, tired of the city and societals

Seeking asylum in the plentiful petals, reciting cues

Watching the sugary sweat gliding off my perspired muse

I got an eye-full while the Eiffel loomed

An idol wolf knows how the lion moves

Their shared grace distracts them from this ensnared place, & its violent truths

He said to her, “You can be my girl. I’d reside in you.”

“We should go where the tone of the forest can be heard.”

“I’d consider that as something really nice to do.”

A coo sticks to the bark more than love notes would

repertoires in the swaying black trees

King Thutmose of the snub-nosed wood

Multi-cellular tea leaves floating in a quagmire

“I won’t get entangled with you until we reach the zenith of the forest.”

Always was a bad liar. Heart pianist with a bag pipe.

As the harpies danced about with flashlights

Looking for us

Our mouths locked onto pulsing, orange nectarines – temporary bliss?

sending out search parties for the scent of that buried kiss

Cherry lips, sexual linguistics. Subtle chemical emissions

I leapt, merely at the image of the dark wolf pressed into your midriff

Delectable envisionment, your body prone, prepping for a visit

Voice so ethereal, an ecstasy ellipsis…

I’d feel as though I was entering Olympus

You could ride Aphrodite’s chariot – I’d measure the intrinsics

Many dream of dipping into the waters we waded through

Our spirit animals harnessing ‘sabertooth’

Mostly because our prehistoric appetites are broad and insatiable

The next morning, the phrases stewed

still traces on our tongues of the balm from the fragrant fumes

Unsure of how long I was tasting you

What if we ate all of the nectar, saved none for the hummingbirds,

and left them with nothing for sustenance but a dozen worms?


Erik Moshe is an aspiring lyricist from Hollywood, Florida. His book shelf may get dusty at times, but he finds it okay, since the universe is dusty and it can be quite eventful. He recently finished a poetry collection about robotics and the future. Find him at where he weaves words in unconventional, bizarre fashion.

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