Soaking
up your moisture
I
know you are wet
By
the Titanic look in your kosher ham and cage-free eyes
There’s
no desperation in your DNA and why would there be
When
you’ve always tested drug free and still believe in magic
I
swear I once witnessed unicorns gallop out of your perfect tuchus
The
portrait of you is American Gothic after a walk on the wild side of self -determination
and self-empowerment
It’s
raw like an unlicked postage stamp and the power of the purse is everything it’s
cracked up to be with a slice of pie thrown in for good measure
I’m
always torn between the banana cream and coconut cream and I wish someone would
join the two together so my divided loyalties could finally be reunited
Steering
into the flesh strokes of your portrait extraordinaire I admire the painter for
their rude genius and how it interrupts your self-loathing in volcanic cracks
of rod and switch
It’s
a dreamscape of fever and slave driver faded out as political correctness
attempts to erase our tortured oxymoron selves
I
refuse to hang out with anyone, these days, unless they’ve seen both Annie Hall and Rosemary’s Baby
Charles Cicirella
2/20/19
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