You leave me cold—and so forlorn; thou weary jaded face of ****. Does any of your turgid action hold a trace of true attraction— more than the membranes, moans and glands that move your products’ many brands? Your upper face looks haggard, used your orifices gape, unmused in lurid and contrived excitement offering at best, incitement to a spurt of blasé bliss: a risk-free game of Hit on Miss. Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes where tremors masquerade as quakes. For such hard work you’re unimpressed; your weary looks leave one depressed— to seek, instead, an amateur; the accolades belong to her whose modest shoot on humble bed ensures her book of love gets read; much better than that HD trash where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.
Recalling now the titillation of my youthful ***-fixation wherein falsities were prized, airbrushed half-truths, oversized: thrills to nevermore regain nor recreate, much less attain . . . yet, seen beside today’s hot mess it’s more alluring to undress the past, by varying degrees (her imperfections sure to please).
Perennial curiosity spreads carnal luminosity upon the mysteries of the flesh to tease our hungers; and refresh our longing for the great Unknown; flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
Those naughty childhood memories transmute the lustful ecstasies; each glance, each timeless thrilling tease, was stronger then—compared to this whose pull is harder to dismiss. It fades more quickly once it’s past— but Venus’ vintage treasures last until the suns of lust grow cold and all of desire’s daughters old.
y'all can call me the one who was a poet but thought Haiku ******