all the bodies i’ve bumped up against
the ways i’ve touched using my cock like a defensive weapon
one rod to rule them all
it is fearful out here in the field
this realm where poets can only converse in verse
unable to talk or touch
afraid of coming face to face
better verb to verb acting out various versions of how the scene is played
letting language do the heavy lifting
hearts too brittle to bear this burden
mistaking common sense for wisdom
giving voice to unformed thoughts
rushing my expressions
the faster i can describe it the less i will feel it
if i understood myself i wouldn’t ask you to
read this poem
try to assemble this puzzle in motion
each word a particular piece
the whole nothing more than the scored image of a fractured snapshot in time
Dorian Gray’s devolving portrait
locked away in a dark closet somewhere
you can see it clearly with your ear
cubist syntax splashed utterly audibly
upon the mind’s subconscious canvas
the living colors with which the world is whitewashed
If I understood myself I wouldn’t ask you to… There’s a lot in that statement
Sent from my iPhone
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