Riddle me this:
what do you think of my thoughts?
Are my eyes beautiful,
my hair soft and strong?
Does my presence make your insides smile,
your knees weak with fatique and desire?
True or false-
I am perfect
to you
.
Do you really want to hear my opinions
my stories and fears
or are you just waiting until I'm comfortable enough
close enough
to do things a Real Me wouldn't approve of,
gasps at
just wanting to wet your you-know-what
in my you-know-where
right, sir?
Yeah, I'm a ******,
is this a problem?
Probably
if you had any sense,
are you insane?
Can't possibly be any other explanation
just a silly old me
a ***** old you
nothing to bind us but biology
some laughs and my over-tenderness
too young and ancient for this ****
need a break
solitude solstace and Sierra Leone
lionsgate playgrounds, forbidden fruits of unknowledge
a reality
that isn't real
but good enough for me right now
am I not enough?
No
just not the one
for any
one?
D'accord?

Rambling, clambering, bubbling brook of words
Runs quickly over the book
In front of you
You
You who are without unknowledge
Without sin
Without the knowledge to know
How to feel
Or too see
Or to untranslate into “me.”
How you talk in that way
The way that forces me to look away
Look away because if I don't I believe
That my arms will heave
And I will leave this chair
And heave a hand heavy into your hair-line
And find that you are possibly kind
And caring, and willing to share the words of cherish
And behold in the awe of the beauty of the words running
Rambling
Clambering out of your open head
And onto the burnt carpet.
And into my hand
Heaving with heavy hatred
At the sight of your human form.
But for now
Those words shall remain running and rambling
As I hold my clambering rage inside
And wait for you to finish
Waiting for the rest of the room to realize
How pompous you really are.
And I thank you
For if you weren’t rambling and bambling
Then how could I have written anything?