BETHAN LAURELS
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The Next Cully

​The vessel arrived into port
Kindling to the spark of the eye
Of the unkempt woman
With teeth ready to be unleashed
At first through a smile
Spilling out words of sweetness into desires
Tantalised by the flesh of the disembarking cullys
Passing her side
Knowing there was one to capture and take
And there he was
Spilling the darkest of ragged hair
Holding curls of light and life
He stopped and stood nearby
Just long enough for her fragrance to be caught
Breaking the seas salt air
All he had grown to know
Pulling his eyes to her curving sides
Trailed with warm tressels of hair
Caressing her chest
And the bare skin of her neck
His eyes of mahogany continued to the unguarded opening of her lips
To that there vivid ember of her turquoise eyes
The glow that captures
Has him mesmerised
Him, the next cully
That hit the shore
After days, nights, months a far
Far from flesh and bone of a woman
He caught his jaw with his hand
And brought it back up with a breath
With the attempt to hold a stature
That of the man he supposedly is
Him, the next cully, she was hungry to capture
She offers a curl to the left of her lips
And a nod that could be seen in a hundred and one ways
One of politeness
He so mannerly thinks
One of passion and lust
Is the one he does crave
For it has been days, nights, months on water
With only flames of fire glistening in the night sky
Until now in the peak of summer
He sees them all gathered in the changing tones of her sapphire eyes
For here he is
Her next cully
Ready to be strong and damned as damned can be; weak
As his mind of work and travel no longer speaks
All his tongue craves is the taste of her breasts
This woman before him, unknown
To be undressed
He came to this port with grains filling every chest
Now all he can feel is the stir of his own
All in a frenzy
State of unrest
There she is with her hand and calls
For him to come closer
Smell and taste the score
He moves in with the drop of the tide
And rise of the moon
The sultry sight and sound
His longing for darkness
For her to take him
To the place of nameless scenes; (well for him that is)
To be formed in the warmth of dusk
 
And that is where she did take him
Closing his eyes to hold the tours of flesh
Wilder than the man lost at sea
The pull of storms entwined in every tour and sin
Crafted until the rising sun
Where the crispness of dawn remained untouched
By the heat of their lust
They reeled and rolled
Until the boat of the port called
It was time for the cully to move from lover to man
Leave the flesh in which he was wrapped
As he the cully, the nameless travelling man
Returned to the vessel and seas
The taste of her flesh still on his lips
His eyes holding the skin and curve of her hips
With trails of her hair within his own
For there he was had
 
Her last cully
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  • About
  • Poetry I
  • Poetry II
  • Poetry III
  • Contact
  • Blog of Words