It has been extraordinarily difficult for me to write lately. But I suppose that is to be expected, starting college and all. Enjoy this, for what it's worth. I promise that I shall, sometime soon, churn out poetry that is not sexually related. I need to venture away from that old trick.
Supposedly I will never tire of ailing after what I
cannot have. Yes; mine is
an eternal lust, transcending
the neonitric foreplay and the heedless enhancements but
coursing through the tendons in my hands
like an overanalyzed dose of mescaline
And now my pulse rears like a darkhorse, a threatened mare
Whose offspring lies somnolent in my palm;
turn your downy head and offer up
a flaxen ear, display
the dainty pearls of your
strange mouth and
mew: mew as if
it hurts, as if you can scarcely withstand
my petting you further.
It was only a desk chair
Only an abused, five-legged set
but to me, it was a throne
and he, with his legs askew was
begging to be danced upon.
silent king, all red t-shirt and
skance deviance; half
boyishly zetetic and curiously
accepting my weight.
and, dipping myself in, [i]
touched his pearls with my tongue