Tongue Tip Tickle

The tooth tightens as a prelude to tongue tip tickle.

My incisors job is to grip your thigh,
No tearing of flesh now, our food is packaged and soft.
Their purpose now is to thrill,
to gently firmly hold your attention.
As if I hadn’t had it before.
 
This candied pain proclaims a promise of another age,
to which, part of us falls back to,
locked and taut together, in aged battle.
Sex is violent, like flowers or clouds or fur,
a tight-wire walk of animal self,
a playtime for your fawning fierce inner pup.
 
I feel the soft of my own hair as you grasp handfuls,
a weird glitch of sensory wiring
that whips my instincts further,
although, not as much as the smell of you
and the tang of four layer skin scratched back back.
 
Your donut glazed cherry cheeks glow now,
with real light.
Rarely seen on strangers on street
Though you see the dim dawn on woman heavy with child.
 
It excites me, your real, animal face.
Viewed past dimple downed buttoned bellyed breasts and mid,
I look up through brows
adding another animal layer, of fur
and gently nustle and truffle and tongue tip tickle.
 
We are but Cubs stroking and pawing at one another.
Mostly with claws in.

Limited Edition of 33         Signed and Numbered on Reverse        19 x 35.5cm

Printed with Epson SureColor printers using ten colour, wide gamut UltraChrome HDX lightfast pigment inks, on Hahnemühle Photo Rag ®, 308 gsm Paper which has a 100% rag content. To achieve Museum quality prints.

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