только ты

                Посвящено виртуальной 2летней любви Грею

You are the flower that bloomed in the wilderness on the decayed dust of my shrine, to be nurtured by me from now and forever the sinful of my ages. Everything can no longer be different, because I feel hunger. I caress you with my hand, and you yourself so pull over your hand with an unaccountable burden to give and give up and begging to touch ... Intoxicated by the rhythm of your pulsations, I fall down with your mouth greedy to the flesh ... such that only to lap and cry, never thinking - what then? I want to get enough, not having injured the pale marble of silky skin with blue veins, my rightful belonging to the creature's arm of the creator. I am trembling weightlessly creating every movement again, I want to get drunk with whitish juice, to your source grow primordially hungry lips and read veins like braille letters so that you forget those who used to take because you are holy to me. On you will remain prints of kisses, so that you shouted to me and from the cry all the chakras opened ... So that you grow in me a flower ...


Ty tsvetok, kotoryy rastsvel v pustyne na istlevshem prakhe moyey svyatyni, chtoby byt' vzleleyannym mnoy otnyne i voveki greshnykh moikh vekov. Vso uzhe ne mozhet byt' po-drugomu, potomu chto ya oshchushchayu golod. YA tebya laskayu svoyey rukoy i ty sam tak tyanesh'sya za rukoy s bezotchetnoy tyagoy otdat' i sdat'sya i mol'boy vozmozhnosti prikasat'sya... Op'yanennyy ritmom tvoikh pul'satsiy, pripadayu zhadnym do ploti rtom... Ty rozhden podatlivo-legkoplavkim i moim gubam otvechayesh' vlagoy, ty takoy, chto tol'ko lakat' i plakat', nikogda ne dumaya - chto potom? YA khochu nasytit'sya, ne poraniv s golubymi zhilkami blednyy mramor shelkovistoy kozhi, moyey po pravu prinadlezhnosti tvari ruke tvortsa. YA tebya trepeshchushchim nevesomo sotvoryayu kazhdym dvizhen'yem snova, ya khochu upit'sya belosym sokom, k tvoyemu istochniku prirastat' pervobytno-alchushchimi gubami i vychityvat' veny kak bukvy braylya, chtoby ty zabyl tekh, kto ran'she brali, potomu chto ty dlya menya svyatoy. Na tebe ostanutsya otpechatki potseluyev, chtoby ty mne krichal i ot krika vse otkryvalis' chakry... Chtoby ty vo mne vyrastal tsvetkom...



 8 апреля 2012 в 23:19

Из мертвой английской сказки о придворном Поэте и наивном Принце. Глава 435.