Sûrah XXVI
"Nay, but ye are froward folk."


Hey there, Naja,
Nubian nymph,
The tides of Neptune pull
Recall you
Reach to grasp you by those tapered ankles
Haul your ass to sea
That you might mingle your marine-evolved secretions
With their Source
Rejoin the Whirlpool of Existence
Dissolve into age-old fathoms

Venus Rising
Passion on the half shell
Coppertone Queen
This beach of bleached Caucasians blushing
Devotedly your subjects
I your King
The only match for your perfection
Your complexion
Your élan
Gyrations, brazen in their overtures, jounce and jar
A pagan's dance

Our mating fingers intertwined like serpents
Music in our voices
Yours a piccolo with its trill-like giggles
Mine a tenor sax
Together improvising
Crooning provocations
As we wend our way through meteor showers
Of Frisbees
As we laugh
Observe the pelicans, single file,
     performing wave-top aeronautics
While the gulls carouse and scavenge
     waging tug-of-war on scraps
As kites resist the breeze and wriggle up the sky
     like airborne tadpoles
     their umbilicals tied to child-held spools unwinding

What a day!
The sun seducing with its hot licks
Coaxing sweat through curdled lubricants
Oil and coca butter glistening on the skin
     of those who bask
     au naturel
     (the vast majority)
     naked bosoms, backsides, pubes
     uninhibited in their frolic
Genders baldly on parade

The bark of dogs
The pop of wine corks
Zip top cans erupting fizz
An idle songstress plucking plaintive notes
     on an out-of-tune guitar
Are sounds articulated briefly
In between the shushing surf
As if the ocean sent each wave to usher calm

And for us, sweet Naja, sex
Our cloistered conclave midst the rocks
Removed from spying eyes
Eavesdropping ears
And tsk-a-tsking tongues
Your backbone arched
Your buttocks buoyed
Your wet cleft tilted up
And aft
Affording irresistible access
To yours truly

Perfect fit
A sort of vacuum-packed cohesion
     weds our loins
Dual pleasure audible
     with each to and fro
     each thrust and swallow
     genitals, flushed, conjoined
Beyond your shoulders, neck, and nappy coif
Loom whitecaps, groundswells, breakers
Sweeping froth, like rustling petticoats,
     to the shoreline
     torn and tattered
Lacy wisps, at water's edge, all that remain

Save our desire
Which likewise mounts
                                                   starts to curl
Whereupon a Cub Scout
Rounds the bend of our cul-de-sac
     and stands stock-still
     his jaws agape
     his choirboy mouth a transfixed O
     expressing shock
     (if not amazement)
     at our in flagrante pose
As I ejaculate―past repressing it;
We must witness being witnessed
No false modesty
Ours is a lesson
     (he is gone)
     a graphic how-to
     couple upright
For the benefit
     (here comes another one)
Of the troops
     (he, too, flees stunned)
Our indiscretions, picturesque, in his flabbergasted wake

Naja's tittering
     peristaltic in her nether-parts
Extrudes me
We are spent and yet exhilarated
     in this California cove
Where people tend to look indigenous
Dressed in birthday suits
And smiles
Our antics evident:
     Naja's spim-slick crotch
     my shrunken member's drool
Are no more out of place than a toddler's
     pail and shovel
Or sculpted sand
     in Moorish architectures fashioned here and there
As we stroll back
Through island clusters―populations varied:
With voyeur sentinels prowling nearby bluffs
Brows glued to rude binoculars
Fully clothed, these lurid gawkers serve
     to denigrate, shame themselves
     pathetic pals of Lucifer
     peeping in at Eden

"What would bliss be like
     without its alter ego misery
     sense sans nonsense
     light / dark
     soft / loud
     smooth / rough
     sweet / bitter
     fragrant / foul
Shades between
With our emotions following suit
     love / hate
Our morals
     right / wrong
Are we locked not into
     virtue / vice
Being fickle human beings
Mere hapless inmates held imprisoned by our
     either / or
     white / black
Our obsessive
     life / death
Until released at last
In reunions post mortality,"
Asks the nude philosopher?

Hey, who cares?
With the likes of Naja
To have and to hold!

Franchone Pinkney