Like the infertile young debonair of the American Dream,
whiskey dicked, and moaning
over the sweaty heap of calloused flesh,
my "relationships" are brimful of
disappointment. The throngs of love drunk
junkies eager to play, dressed for the
Concert of Apollo and the Muses.
Naked grudges,
threshing and gushing
the way the chicken did;
grandmother with head in hand.
Rhythmic and off beat,
instinctual. Begging; more, more,
more. They're beginning
to wear the same face,
a carnal imprint of
satisfaction.
But I know they don't see me,
how could they, lying, eyes
rolling in the back of their
heads?
My eyes
still.
I can picture your face here but it'd never do,
subdued
issues of a fallacy state.
Irate.
How could you leave this impression?
Emotional digression.
I've promised myself time
and time again not to fall for the same old ****,
that kiss, that ******
blood-inked kiss.
But the insulin fused memories scream. I
detest the wretchedness I've exposed
myself
to. A period of forgetting
you, but the passage of time
pulling grain from grain, uplifts my disdain.
I finally feel comfortable unveiled,
awaken, lying next to
the humming lips of a
foreign swain.