Seventh poem begins kind of slow.
As I take my time licking around your areolas until your nipples are as hard as the Taj Mahal.
I return to this enlightened forest where the writing takes hold. Butcher paper on the floor. Construction paper and children’s paste a required exercise in reliving one’s dexterous and tainted childhood.
Are any of us ever nurtured enough?
I wonder this as I watch Trump begging for love while he dismisses everyone for not being as smart as him.
No longer are we allowed to have our own opinions and if you dare mock him off with your bobblehead.
Fahrenheit 451 right around the corner as The Man In The High Castle becomes more than food for thought and the table scraps you feed your dog will soon be all we have left to nourish our chalklike bones.
I already do the work so I won’t have a problem when thrown behind barbed wire and told that work will set me free. And just for the record I’ll never stop crying because if you’re not staining the wilderness floor with your opaque tears than what good are you?
I take my time with foreplay because you’re the only pinup I’ve ever been able to get next to and love how you set my tongue free and my fingers on fire.
Seventh poem is again a mix of the sacred and the profane because I don’t believe in lollygagging and believe it’s time we take this to the next level.
Oh who am I kidding I’ve always been afraid of heights as Hitchcock’s Vertigo bears down on me like a slow train comin’ up around the bend.
Yes I am one of the chosen people, but that hardly means I’ll automatically be saved and this is something I must process before the chains that bind break open and I am free to return to wherever I believe I’ll finally be safe and relatively sound.