Hexing the Sexing
Splish. Splosh. Gush.
But the morning is scalloped and golden-bollocked and her toes are ten polished pebbles succumbing to his warm liquid sands. He can artfully balance a Faberge egg on each tip of his jubilant tentacles, all meant to be fingered and grasped, gifts from his shuddering sea-bed, embroidered with filigree snail-trails, stuck with rusted spikes, tinkling with battered old bells.
She holds his bleached conch to her water-logged ear for the soothing swoosh of his salted sweet everythings. A trove of blushing beach shells, fragile petals worn sharp, laced with sulking and sighs, fall out her twinned empty eyes. He scoops them from her damp dune cheeks to rise on cathedrals of foam. Twirled by ankle thrust through spray churning fountains, she is crushed with delight in his rainbow-swirled shimmying arms. Together devouring the dry, he tosses her into tomorrow.
And here come his dark waves under his bigger sky.
O, he never limps, he sings the whole of the sea.
The sea is his diamond dipped blanket and he rolls her away from the shore – anchor-weighted and plunging, pulled by the blades of her knees to his dead-man’s chest where the stripped bones grin, stacked and flashing. Down here starfish cartwheel in haunted halls echo blue. His pools are flooded and trembling, his curvaceous limbs fairly quicken, his treasures twitch, gleaming and ripe. She is staked on the long prongs of his slime-silvered tridents before his throne of coral and stars. He is most fancy finery and he thunders from the fathoms:
‘You shall be my fish-wife, a flesh feast for my cold life.’
And, hurling his fabulous fury at her feet, he unleashes the storm of lost men who once sailed her seven seas – rotten masturbators, psychedelic fabricators, fruitcakes, geegaws and flunkeys, transient gargoyles all – salvaged from the ship-wreck of her voyage, barnacled with bloated intention, clinging to the debris of desire, summoned to witness his slipperiness plunder her hidden hold.
Her legs radiate shadow-trees in their search-beams, splayed and displayed for her follies, skin wrinkled prunish and peeled back to reveal her sodden pickled oyster – it protects a precious pearl, crouched in the shallows of her hollows.
Stretched on the rack of his spokes, her breasts hung heavy with molluscs, she spies ‘Give Me Head’ tattooed in bright red, across his pale domed forehead. Meeting his glaring stare, she risks a saucy wink.
Henry the Hexapus winks back.
Her blanched pucker lips are perfectly designed to explore his six aching extensions. He wriggles and squidges his bulging lengths right up her several dripping portals, squirming in the deep sediment of his ink-spurting despair. He is her soft bulky raft where she lays herself down, crying out for the moon and drowned wishes, to the beat of his three pounding hearts.
But the morning is scalloped and his golden bollocks stay balanced on the tip of her tongue. Tentacles now colour-wheels, he flips his map of jewels, to chart caravans of spasms against the distance of chasms, from the ocean of unquenchable longings where she is always and ever the sucker.
Splish. Splosh. Gush.