Horsing Around

Let’s steal horses,
sheep and cattle;
roast some snakes
and slay some dragons.

Race the street
at top speed.
We don’t care
if they stare
when we do it
en plein air.

Make me scream.
Make me moan.
As I tease you
with blue balls.

Run your hands
down my back.
Kiss my neck.
Smack my ass.
Suck my tits.
Mess my hair.
As they witness
this affair.

Let me suck
your fingers dry.
Feel the dampness
in my crotch.
Taste the scent
of basil lips.
Guide the movement
of these hips.

Make me scream.
Make me moan.
While devouring
each other whole.

Let’s steal horses.
Let’s steal sheep.
Slain dragons
and scotch unease.


Nasty Parts

I want those nasty parts of you. The dark, messy, broken pieces scattered somewhere between your reality and memory.

I want to hold them and see where our reflections are shared. Find the spots where your jagged edges fall in line with mine and let the void that might arise fill with momentos sinceros the rest.  
I want to see my reflection in your eyes. Hold hands as we jump into the abyss not knowing where it might lead. Scared and excited all the same. 

– la C.Guapa

Morning Muse

It is true, without a doubt, 
you are my morning muse.
The inspiration that overflows
commanding me to pick up a pen
and record the momentos sinceros spent with you.

You make these words flow with ease
and simple lines
turn into epic poems
at the thought of you.
Nothing else seems to capture these rhymes
quite as effortlessly
as the curl of your smile,
the scent of your hair
and the touch of your hand 
as it caresses the back of my neck.

Nothing else renews this love affair with words
as the thought of your presence,
and nothing else cures
this perpetual writer’s block
as the subtle sound of your voice.
Making my chest reverberate 
with the rhythm of your step
and halting breath
with a gentle glance.

Nothing else.

Nothing else wakes me up at 7am
but the taste of sweet flowers 
from your lips
and the memories of hearty laughs
silly words
and crazy dreams shared with you.

Nothing else
conjures prose
quite like you.


As I sit by you –
among dangling lights,
surrounded by books –
the delicate tone of your voice,
coupled with the plump and soft appearance of your lips,
makes me wish I could touch.

Just once more.

But tangled amidst your broken bones
and my missing guts,
nothing but an ocean flows between us.

I have given up.
Or did I?

I have given up.

I have given up trying to force it.

And questioning if it is best to euthanize fantasies
or rather give in to impulse by jumping in?

Who knows.

All I can think of is how soft they look.
How thirsty I am.
And how broken we seem
below these dimmed lights.