Home   |  Captain's Log  |  About  |  Random  |  Pictures  |  Links  | Contact Me
WORDS TO LIVE BY

Not a man to mince words. People, yes. But not words. --Terry Pratchett, Small Gods

YOUR DAILY DOSE

James Lileks - The Bleat
The Onion
Satire Wire
Tim Blair, A Blog
VodkaPundit
Ken Layne
Hittman Chronicle
#usr/bin/girl
Little Green Footballs
Instapundit
Virginia Postrel
TechCentral
Best of the Web
The Corner
Jonah Goldberg
Overlawyered
Dave Kopel
Kausfiles
Talking Points
Joanne Jacobs
Michael Barone
Andrew Sullivan
Pundit Watch
Matt Welch
Adragna & Vehrs
Patrick Ruffini
Bjorn Staerk
Fredrik Norman
Andrea See
Frank Cagle
Jerry Pournelle
Rand Simberg
SpinSanity
Charles Johnson
Samizdata
SmarterTimes
U.S.S. Clueless
The Occasional
UThant.Com
RealClear Politics
Damian Penny
Hollywood Investigator
Natalie Solent
Shiloh Bucher
Jeff Jarvis NanoDot
Sgt. Stryker
Listen Missy
The Daily Dose
Joshua Trevino
Doc Searls
Charles Murtaugh
NewsRack
Wil Wheaton
Think Geek
Cows with Guns
This Modern World
BB Spot
Fark
Retrocrush
IMockery
Something Awful
Obey Giant
Unrealistic Expectations
The Editing Room

                     more...
RECOMMENDED SITES


The ISF Players
Halve Mein Hash
Missing - Suzanne Lyall

Arc
Sounding Board
CRUMBS

Pumpkin Masters
Emotion Eric

Sluggy Freelance
Dilbert
Sinfest
User Friendly
PVP Online
                     more...

DESK TOP POP CAN COUNT


Currently: 234 Cans



Site Update Log
Site Map
Web Site Resume

Random Works Index

 
<< Previous Work >> Next Work
Prone

Prone, she lays like a sick dog on the bed on the second floor of my home.
Standing before her naked, our eyes caress the milk white hidden skin.
In the colder days of autumn or the prickly heat of August, I'd take her,
yielding and compliant, luxorious and radiant.
The glow from inside her skin radiating outwards like an incredible sunburst,
tendrils of smokey light reaching out to touch me, long opaque fingers
would reach around my heart, tugging insistently
Slowly, the rhythm of her heart would enslave my own heart in my own chest.
As one in time, in measure, in tune; counting out the precious seconds of our nights.
I watch her breath. The air moves beyond her lips to my own
and I draw her into my lungs.
There she floats and dances through my capilaries until she collapses.
Chest heaving, brow shiny with the sweat of our lovemaking, she leaves me there
as a carefree sleep overtakes her conciousness and she dreams again of waking.

<< Previous Work >> Next Work


  Home  |  Captain's Log  |  About  |  Message Board  |  Random  |  Pictures  |  Links  |  Contact Me
Site Design by: Don, The infinitely prolonged © Copyright 2002 Don Howe. All Rights Reserved