Friday, August 19, 2016

I love hard salami and that’s not a euphemism for something else. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Intimacy and I have never seen eye to eye.
I always discover myself moving away from it when it’s within sight.
After an orgasm it’s all over and cuddling with a significant or insignificant other is not even an option.

Orgasm is French for “little death” and it’s true I do find myself experiencing "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness."
And it’s all over, baby blue as my blue periods become bluer and exclamation points become farther and farther apart.
One sentence leads to the next and when I’m done serving time I promise to put this poem up on the front of the refrigerator so everyone can be proud of the meager accomplishment I’ve accomplished.

And the hard salami, provolone cheese, yellow mustard and white bread explode in my mouth like a symphony of carnage and calypso singing.
And I was never afraid of losing you because I knew you were as lost as I was when we stopped holding hands and crossed the street as strangers.
And an orgasm will fuck you up as your lion roars for as long as it takes to exhaust yourself and sleep for what you pray will only be a temporary death.

Charles Cicirella

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