Haven’t You
Wednesday,
May 30, 2012
11:00 PM
5/30/2012 11:00 PM
For once the
inception point is not ‘I’.
We start in the
undue respect paid to patriots. Who drink the nostalgia of basal ganglia
reigniting the reciting of a jingoistic mantra. We hump in gentle wordings, we
penetrate with parables of proper phrasing. I dare to double entendre with a
rendezvous betwixt our fabled wild whimsy’s.
I mean to average
the statistics and readjust the economic pragmatism of measured-risk
investment. The weight of your little breaths loom heavy on my heart. I etch
ecstasy in the nearly zero difference in our physical distance. We so intensely
underestimate each others peak interest, stumble into the grace of mutual
nourishment, of subconscious affection, like the caveman who paints my dreams
is in love with you too.
The civility of
established citizenship do so in social order as much to secure the language
and tone of proper culture. Neanderthal pronouns and present tense verbs
bespoken while my tongue is tantalized by thoughts of other team activities, Me
Want. Me Need. Me Love. I escape the rain into an early 20th-centure telephone
booth . The glass fogs and I unravel your trench coat. We tip fedoras and I
lift your leather boots from the floor tiles. We kiss like good silhouettes and
the lips they live in warm exuberant enthusiasm. The smooch trumps the whistle
as far as meaningful puckers go.
Personal moral
responsibility is the respect one pays to ones own soul. We unstitch each
others clothes and stand stark nude, threadbare, and glowing like superheroes
center stage and lime lighted, behind the curtains sit understudied side kicks
which we together no longer are. Primal magnetism, pagan chemistry,
supernatural swells of such ferocious energy. We lock eyes, fingers, and limbs.
We kiss shins, nipples, necks, thighs, and chins. We hold symmetry ransom in
our capers carried out under covers, sheeted like the drying line shining in
the mid day sun. We flap in the breeze of our heavy breathing, we cut paper
with our posture scissoring.
The academic discipline welcomes routine refreshing
moments of intense scrutiny. Love walks in and kicks the devil in his
cock-and-balls. Satan’s tears are sipped in dim lit lonely bars, cures for
broken hearts doled out by keepers of the open scar. A stiff drink begets a
rigid spine, empty bottled up spirits, intoxicating vapors of the melting kind.
Your flower whimpers on a heavy vine, I sip the fruit of pure happiness and
bliss the urge around the world spins hypnotically I revolve the word we
actuate embodies us consummate, coupled, completed with our content
consciousness we pluck each others heart strings and reverberate with epic
echoing, like we are us indefinite.
5/30/2012 11:32 PM