he is a poet
and I, destitute in his mercy
make small unintelligible sounds
his tongue curls around
my syllables of breast and thigh
I leap into occasion
devoured of flesh,
he hides me from myself
and dissects my sentience with mathematical precision
there is a dark angel sleeping in my bed, his poetry
oppresses me, he taunts me with his touch
and his pen pinions me
he whispers: "fly with me"
Comments
And off,
And off they flew if this is still about a personal side, it sounds marvellous. If not i stand corrected, either way i love this poem, short though full of action and everybody should have a dark side. Love Roscoe...