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is my prison ...
that dreamy, white tangle of
percale where your
limbs and mine weave sweaty magic -
a moon-daubed canvas of
pyretic passion, public ...
no shut-door, drawn-curtain modesty to
confine or make sacred ...
the danger of chance discovery is
our brush, our pigments but
blood ... water ...
(pray, this haughty
consideration of both ... and each -
is not the nectar of veins
yet, in all its giving of life,
water - the most earthly flow, abundant -
is exceedingly more precious ...
more crucial in dynamism
to all the Universe
than that which clots for
kings of kings of kings ...
and those who keep little lives in their
pocket, squeezing tears from
a passion's pains) ...
we watch the
strokes of our masterpiece
take shape ...
our fleshy doppelgangers echo us on
strategically beveled mirror ceiling panels ...
an exquisite debauchery - the
perfect pauses in your form
demanding the gaze ...
oh, to waste away like Erised in contemplation of
your provocative pieces and bits ...
torrid,, touchable temples that I build
myself for the spying eyes
we count on ...
wives, husbands, leches, learners -
a grand performance, ours ...
from the ashes of our
god, do we arise, (blood, tears and marrow) ...
our mortal senses gone, wagered in
feigned dignity or hope, these
buttresses will stand proud for the
sacrifices of character ... and kindnesses ...
or crumble in care for the chaste
as my illicit actress and I ...
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2021
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