For seven-eighths of each day
I long for those instantaneous moments of
Unbridled joy.
I bid so long to Marianne
As I hear the full bubble of wine
And welcome Suzanne
And the fullness of her moistened lips.
Oh, if the eyes are portals to the soul,
Then the throat must positively be the vessel
To all that soothes the thunder
and causes our souls to shudder
In the watery pits of our gut.
These toxic tonics that we hold
Betwixt our baneful id,
And our most pathetic of egos.
This lamb that tames the lion,
Purple hearted with paranoia
and a lack of trust to rival even the most barbarous
Of governments.
**** me or don’t.
Perhaps the only mark of solace in this life
Is to be stabbed in the front
And to avoid the hustling of the scheming lovers
Behind the roman blinds of your devotion.
Set fire to Marianne.
You can lay with Suzanne
But don’t share a smoke with her.
Because she will take.
And take.
Take.
T.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
For seven-eighths of each day
I long for those instantaneous moments of
Unbridled joy.
I bid so long to Marianne
As I hear the full bubble of wine
And welcome Suzanne
And the fullness of her moistened lips.
Oh, if the eyes are portals to the soul,
Then the throat must positively be the vessel
To all that soothes the thunder
and causes our souls to shudder
In the watery pits of our gut.
These toxic tonics that we hold
Betwixt our baneful id,
And our most pathetic of egos.
This lamb that tames the lion,
Purple hearted with paranoia
and a lack of trust to rival even the most barbarous
Of governments.
**** me or don’t.
Perhaps the only mark of solace in this life
Is to be stabbed in the front
And to avoid the hustling of the scheming lovers
Behind the roman blinds of your devotion.
Set fire to Marianne.
You can lay with Suzanne
But don’t share a smoke with her.
Because she will take.
And take.
Take.
T.
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