Wednesday, January 04, 2017

Tenth Poem

Desire to make love to you over the phone.
I only have a flip phone, but I’ll do my very best to make it work and worth your time and boundless fairy tale energy.
Once upon a time we were dolphins, then we got sick of the ocean, washed up on the shore and evolved into cash cows.

There’s no dignity left. What was hanging on by a thread never could have been photographed anyhow.
All the many ghosts in the machine decided to call it quits and visit Havana before America arrives full force and shits all over their culture.
We did it to the Native Americans and we’ll do it to the Cubans too. I guess might doesn’t have to equal right as long as you have the money and a Christian White God on speed dial.

Pick up the phone. I’ll wait here by the wall with all the prayers tucked into the cracks.
Simon and Garfunkel had it right “Blessed are the meth drinkers, Pot sellers, Illusion dwellers.”
Paul Simon wasn’t monkeying around when he wrote like a poet whose very life depended on the words he spilled like child’s milk onto a Laminate table top.
What was it like before you escaped into your self-prescribed bubble and behind that awful plastic surgery? When the music wasn’t about money and instead was about making a mark and then getting out of Dodge nearly unscathed.

We trade punches with the champ or we trade punches with ourselves when we self- medicate and “All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again.”
Don’t worry about me I’ll be just fine. This isn’t my first rodeo nor is it my first circumcision.
As long as the Rabbi has a steady hand and the clown keeps his inordinately small hands away from the button I think we’ll be just fine or we won’t. Let us keep in mind all empires must fall even the obese ones that outlawed trans-fat and believe a gluten free diet will somehow save them in the end.

Pick up the phone. I promise to only breathe heavy between compliments and to climax only after you’ve reached your quota and we’ve both gone more than the distance.
I’m considering coming up for air unless you’d prefer I continue pleasuring you. Either option is good with me because there’s nothing better than a Scottish Lass who’s soaking wet and knows no limits.
I’ve never been one for small talk so let’s forgo the chit chat and jump right into the meat and potatoes before cleansing our palates with absinthe and hallucinating like all the great artists once did.

Charles Cicirella

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