I was thinking of something old and antiqued,
words that could express sentiments just under skin,
pool into a spring, seemingly peaceful, flat on the surface,
cold clear liquid, but it's not.
Vanity
Pride
Insecurity
fast food
with bloody gristle on the side,
the stench of french fries, greasy chicken
gut bomb, bombastic, deep, dark speak,
crow-colored syllables with hues of blue,
greens of forest conifers,
the meander of rivers,
forgetfulness
like Lethe.
Damned those Greeks
for naming a path to Hell.
Felt it in my heart,
known it in my mind,
but what say you, Soul?
Mad-Hattered, yet holy, lovely little Buddha,
freakish mighty midget Jesus of Coney Island,
your Side Show Carny Barker Boss (not as amusing as Art)
will pimp you out until they carry you off,
lay you out like a prairie for all to see.
So...
Interrupt my life,
Baby Soul,
with Vesuvius orgasms,
ride my face in shaky, slow motion,
your funky, sweet peach juices flood my mouth,
your moans drone over midnight
like an Etta James chorus.
You, Desert of Delight, dying lovers
still lust for your perfumed Oasis,
hang their tongues from their mouths
to taste the air like lust-struck lions
needing it, cocks and clits slick and hard
waiting for your finger-fuck and stroke,
in and out, in and out, out and in.
Ride, reverse Cow Girl into the sunset
until I'm turned into a cadaver,
my cock still hard in the coffin,
died with that smile,
went home, fulfilled,
satisfied
like a Pharaoh
borne on a solar bark
to the Valley
of the Kings
