|
| |
Leftovers Warmed
"The True poet eyes not beauty's surfaces, but rather its depths."
-- a poet True,
still one of few
* * *
Each fleeting year hath left its tragic trace
Of splotches, blotches, furrows, folds, and flaws
Till scarcely can I recognize thy face
Whose flesh yet yields to gravity's cruel laws;
Far worse, thy body's skin doth drag and sag
As abscesses and pustules burst the hide
Until at times I fancy thee my nag
Who likewise neighs and rears if long I ride;
Though still as warm as fresh expelled cow dung
Remain thy flabby, loose, and withered lips
To deep excite the passion of my tongue
And di*k erect on drugs which skinny-dips;
For time no tragic sway hath over me --
My semi-conscious pen*is worry free.
* * *
a dedication of Respect
for
each Feeling foreskin timeworn
not yet
corpse cold
a revolving helios sonnet shakespearean satire menippean on
the romanticist's revealing obsession with beauty
skin deep
april, 2023 -- still the silhouette sensual of the rhymester romantic
full one inch thick
in paint
(as well as in p*nis)
Copyright ©
James Starkey Iii
|
|