It takes time for things, ideas, people to
warm. Pour oil into the crucible, trail fingers down her
skin, and slowly flame until ready to
sizzle.
~~~
A fistful of cumin, flung with abandon, simmer in the
heat his body exudes, a deep, slow burn, aromas releasing into
the darkness, awaiting the company of herbs.
Watch molten butter in the
brownness of eyes; sweet, salted, gliding past her
collarbones.
~~~
Curls of glistening onions, scatter at his
touch, slide into the heated pool, shimmy
madly. Garlic browns, like mouth on
polished shoulders, exudes the scents of demanding
lovers.
~~~
Turmeric flutters, chilli invades interlocked
tongues, and green flecks of coriander nestle in the
recesses of her loins. Coconut and cardamom shudder
together. Creamy milk swirls
a simmering subconscious
awake.
~~~
Basa crisps cracklingly, tossing in abandon, like
a long night under the covers, claims flavors as its
own, hugs their identities
possessively.
~~~
Merge. Meld. Morph into
an unasked question.
Linger lurkingly in the hollows of
throats and eyes, ghosts and bodies, and ghosts of
bodies, the burst of ripe rawness and pliant tomatoes festooning our
spirits, our core, our memories, our justification for the
Other.
~~~
Feast. Satiate. Cling tighter.
Claim. Claw. Start over.
The dance of erotica, with its
ever-changing players, is an
endless
evening of
steaming forevers.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi