virual sublime


She touches me so gently,
her hands instruments of tortured bliss
(that kiss)
across my fevered soul.

Into the virtual sublime.

She yields me like a key to
gates of sanctity,
she takes me into a consciousness,
higher, higher than ecstasy.

Into virtual sublime.

Until we burned out,
husks empty of the act,


She is the honey in the beehive
she is so pure decadent
she is the sin of sweet tempattion
sublime, she is
virtually all I exist for

My key turns in the lock
the gates are open
into her deepest consciousness,
higher, higher than ecstasy.

we burned out,
we fade…
into virtual sublime

(c) 2016 Allen Simpson
Part 1 written in 2011, part 2 in 2016

Poet’s Note:

For two weeks we had no landline nor internet in our suburb and after more than 12 phone calls we finally have internet again. During the two weeks without internet I reworked this poem and created the art for the poem… I hope you like the end result because this was born from that lack of communication to the outside world.

I suppose one good thing came out of two frustrating weeks of no landlines and no internet