The unity of sex

It’s about control.
My control over you,
over external stimuli,
it’s about navigating
my pleasure zones,
taking them cliff edge
and jumping, naked,
abandoned into an
angry sea of lust.
Its about power,
swinging the kinetic
pen-
du-
lum
in favour of me,
of you,
of me,
of you.
It’s nature’s force
rising within,
screaming obscenities
into the silent sky.
It’s about embracing
taboos,
painting them
across my torso,
mapping them
across my hip,
kissing them deep into my existence.
It’s about liberation,
those shackles that bind,
the ropes that burn,
the belt that reddens
The hands that restrain…
It’s about losing sight
and gaining… Sight
Being led into
temptation and
made to feed.
To gorge on sin
To devour whimsical
wishes, its about
control… My control
in your hands, my
power in your fingers
My need in your kisses
My desire in your strokes
My passion burning in your eyes
It’s all about trust
Power/ trust/ control
Yours… Mine…
They are the same
Its about unity.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

The Rains Came

Photo

The rains came
without warning the
skies darkened and the
air hung fresh as she caught
droplets of cool rain in her mouth
letting them slip between her
flush pink lips tasting them
against her tongue
as they nestled
between the strands
of her untamed hair racing
down her face, sliding down her
neck, teasingly wandering into the
curves of her chest. Searing skin
tingling at the new sensation
of cold beads, erecting need
and heaving sighs
of relief.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words

Scorched remains of lust…

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I am the scorched
remains of his lust,
desire eternally touched,
perfectly balanced,
need masterfully taught
sin purposefully sought,
I am the scarlet hue,
delicately scented rose
I am the deadly thorns
I am the gentle
ebbing oceans calm
I am his raging storm.
I am the craving,
he is my fix
fueling our fires
In lustrous desire.

Indeed I am the
salted mist of
the sea
The vengeful sting
of the worker bee.
Pretorian-esque when
I buzz about,
A sensual approach
as I mount.
Like a mouse in
a sticky trap,
she squirms to escape
my lustful wrath.
Covering her in
my adore,
Cursing her with
bliss forevermore

We are the
scorched remains
of lust, fires
burning
souls yearning
naked abandonement
imprinting upon
primal senses

Love cries when
desires’ applied like
masculine fingers
around a supple neck.
Like fingers in
so much hair. . .like
us taking lusts’
dare.

Karen Hayward & Loc Thiese ©2018

Image ©Karen Hayward 2018

To pause the beats

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I need you… More than need.
I need reality to pause,
the neck of times glass
to close tight
for us alone.
I need a blanket
A cloudless sky filled with
infinite stars and cushions
one or two or ten
and your voice traveling
the shortest distance
between your lips
and my ears.
I need silence to hear the
rapid thumps in my chest
and solitude so I can love
you in abandonment.
I need to know all the
things that make you,
You.
Childhood games, teenage
fancies and adult flames.
Paths walked and journeys
taken, lovers held the worst,
the bes….no scrap that last one.
I want your stories between
kisses on the moons
full blessing, I need your tales
whispered on the curve
of that voice that embraces
my inner need.
I need you.
All that makes you.
I need your essence
embracing me in nights
whispers, your kisses
enticing my spirit to soar
and more.
But I need your tales and
stories that set you my way…
Our constellation of life
that led to times glass
neck closing,
for us. Yes, I need that.
I need you.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

Kissed by loves desire. 

Let me fall into pools
of darkness kissed by golden
rays of the falling sun
and peer momentarily
into your soul.
Stroke your fingers
across the soft curve
of my neck, feel the
delicate essence of
my porcelain skin
beneath your wandering
Hands as you grasp me
within your hold.
Pull me into your torso
let me feel the beating of
your heart as your arms
press into me and your
lips search for the
tender kisses that fall
between carnal need,
between abandonment
between love and lust
and desirous want.
Hold me, tight,
within the realm
of always, whilst our
bodies merge, and
our lips search and
our tongues explore
the taste of one another’s
souls.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

When passion stirs 

It starts at my very core, there at my centre, deep within my sacral.
Not a gentle, subtle whispered kiss
of bliss, oh no, It’s an inferno, a blazing
storm, it takes hold, flames
through me, a moments combustion,
lubricated response to dampen the
fires of desire. A matrix of sensuality,
ancient coding mapped on the aged
parchment of my soul, the hidden
symbolism of spirit that you finger
your way through with the knowledge
of a blind man searching his memories
for lost vibrations of once known directions. A flamed insistence spreads
through my responsive cells,
blood reaching my surface needing
to caress its master as searing heat
flushes and blushes, intensity rushes.
My limbs curl, search, draw in,
crouching, anticipating the onslaught
Implosive lust, explosive need…
It all starts at my very centre,
an inferno blazing through
me, an ancient need responding
to its one true master.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Cover them in Satan’s cream.

Once upon a day gone by beneath a deafening
thunderous sky. I waged a war on life
itself, gave my all with love and grace and
then just simply let it fall. I walked on sullen tippy toes
followed life’s incessant flow. Stopped for neither man nor beast
upon this life i’d lovingly feast. Once upon a day far gone
I danced to another song, with hidden lyrics and a tasty beat
constantly moving my naked feet.
I devoured hearts and stole away dreams
covered them in Satan’s cream. I never looked back,
never questioned my track, never cared for the consequences
my fear to attach was relentless.
Once upon a night long gone I sold my soul in the devils song.
I’ve since begged and pleaded to have it back
he only laughs and says ‘you’ll have only a crack.
You’ll see out, but they’ll not look back.’

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and wordsimg_20160419_221320.jpg

If life were at my mercy a gun about her head. . .

redhairwings

If life were at my mercy with a gun about her head,
I’d ask she bring you to myself, to lay upon the bed.
Safety off I’d tell her so, that you are mine to have,
And life would know right there and then, she’s at the mercy of my wrath.
And for my mercy she would plead
whilst begging I tell her of my needs.
I would say, in a gentle whisper,
His touch upon my skin to linger.
The gracious feel of his wandering tongue,
and the pleasurable feel of his caressing thumb.
And life, with a gun about her head,
would say, ‘You want him here inside your bed?
To feel the devils touch of sin
lingering on your precious skin?’.
And I would smile and pity her,
and ponder who she once were.
Yes. I want his touch upon my skin,
Yes. I want the devil’s sin.
Oh life, surely even you can see,
what his touch could do to me.
And for a moment, gun about her head, she smiles,
then opens up my battered old file…
Sorry dearest, she does say,
Ive checked it out against his name…
and you have nothing past today,
for it seems your futures are still…being made.
So, I look her in her eyes and shoot her in the head,
then call out to the devil as she whimpers whilst she bled,
and the devil comes a crawling,
for he’s heard all that I have said,
he smiles, winks and says,
‘let’s get him in your bed’!

Karen Hayward ©2016

Image found on Pinterest

Sensuality of a blank canvas.

There’s no space on the page where my words can settle without burning
the sheet to ash. Speckles of ash that are lifted into the breeze, thoughts
carried away into the universe.
There’s no way to spill the calm of chaos into a logical sentence that can
be read and understood, rarely can the light walkers understand the dark.
There’s no way to create form with a desire that walks on the edge of
nothingness, no perfect Haiku to whisper in code, or sonnet to bumpily
rhyme away sinful thoughts.
Perhaps if I had an invisible pen i could write of the desires, I could tell of
the thoughts that would make even the devil blush.
I could explore the page with a fresh energy, words trailing, thoughts
wandering as do fingers or eye’s or the passion that sits on the
lips of a lover.
Or perhaps, I can write in rhyme safe in the knowledge that the beat will
hide from sight my continual need for you.
Trivialization of such thoughts feels like a form of infedelity to myself, to
the empty space in front of me, to the blank page that can become so
much, yet begs me to not make a liar of it.
Perhaps the emptiness is better than being compliant and trying to force
delicious chaos into some form of normality.

Karen Hayward ©2015