My presentation lacks the character
that can drive the femmes wet and sinister
so just you ,
just be there sister.
I’ll off myself and
whether bridges look golden from hell’s sweet heights.
Maybe you’re the weird type.
The female version of a skirt chaser, a weird chaser
maybe then will my large sickle pop spread smiles on both your silly…
Oh you’ve got lisp.
I shirk the the lighted path,
and avoid its blinding lie.
Sheathing my cross beneath darkened robes
while I descend into the dark.
You asked why.
Why I don’t have a smile on my face.
I had to turn from heel to face,
TO FACE YOU,
just to ask YOU why.
Why SO serious, love?
after judging MY grace on the field,
during my graceful caress on your skin and
those tender kisses I laid on your navel leading down to your nether naval,
you said “Do Not Judge” with a straight face at the pearly gates of no sin and lust I flee I flee I FLEE from.
Its is my price to pay,
I had forked over bills of bitter sweet double standards just to avoid that never sweet fire of your damnation.
But I sinned
What was that?
Well I lust
and I lust
and I lust
And I lust more than I sin.
That’s if sin is lust or lust is sin,
but in your case lusting for you was my only sin.
That’s my insanity speaking.
You asked why?
Why so serious?
Why don’t I have a smile on my face?
Because you my fair friend,
and I answer in the insanest part of my less than satisfied mind just to keep from hurting her fading fragile ego,
You my fair one,
I pace myself because these sweet words will never leave my own lips,
you my muse,
you who repel my true lustful bliss
I want to see you gain true bliss.
are a grade lower than any known average.
I lie before I leave her with a memory of what a poetic fake climax
should look like.
Just a few days apart, still by centuries technically
April done us bad…
This week a Prince died.
The Sultan of magnificence,
The essence of black and white and gay and straight and everything that is everything we weird wannabes hope to be…
THE lonesome ONE MAN BAND who didn’t just walk the streets for change but walked the streets of the mind, the soul and sweetened fornikation,
The dude I saw in passing,
who looked like Michael Jackson
and I got confused because I never knew a sixth among the five.
Then I heard his name was Prince,
and he dressed like a Prince,
and I thought he was charming and I could be in love ……. with his weirdness.
While all the normals and the Vanillas are sending their tributes,
while I feel guilty because I postponed downloading purple rain before now,
the rest of you,
the rest of us,
who hope to embody the spirit of his craft and kill it on paper and on stage,
who pick Monikers with background titles,
add sparkles and double languages
but don’t even know this craft is much more than a hobby to get a time out from precious melancholy,
poeticizing your presence for a moment … play family and relive that one moment before going back to your trophy life…..
You don’t even know he was alive.
But I digress,
cuz even Lockean Phil teaches me sensations begot reflections,
and I sensed him.
No matter how vague and earthly and brief it was I sensed him.
I ignored him until now but I Sensed Him.
I won’t it against you if you masquerade skepticism in your life,
yet refuse to toss out the stale apples because you’ve got a hang of the life…..
The prince is dead,
the man who put on the many shades of our egos,
Played seducer with our mind and made love to our weirdness,
And I’m dead.
Prince is dead.
After I free my soul of its binding
and watch the slab rise in my honour,
I take to the mile beyond knowledge
toward the juncture of my self doubt.
On your knees to give me reverence,
mounting me to show your dominance,
we’re creating a tempest in our madness and
echoing a storm when we should rest.
You’re shrieking my name in lost syllables,
in my favourite monotones,
of sweet fornikay.
Our Barberry moments filling the hours with grunts and sighs till the minute we stiffen,
Let’s start again,
welcome that inner body experience in the mist of milky exorcisms we’ve hailed in rhymes.
Draw pleasure on the bed post with my crucifix between us.
Wet your moist lips and momentary swollen lisp,
Let it moan
Let it moan and squeal in its drool ,
our duet on encore on the stained stage of sweaty sheets,
and our mountain of wrappers in a pile at our feet will litter the earth with children we neglect.
For every ounce of life we wear out, still steep and spilling at the brim.
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