The Way She Sees

All hail the poet laureate lascivious no longer, laughing through his treacherous tears, raising his cowardly countenance to the heavens feigning a cinematic fortitude as heavy ivory keys stomp then sprinkle lightly from the hands of Satie. Amber, orange, brown, grey, and a watercolor smudge of said hues stroke violently across the path atop the backs of dying leaves whilst he rides his bicycle slowly from side to side, hands in his jacket pockets. Cosmosis The Cunt…O Frail Emperor…Lastius The Phirst…Exodeus…Leopold Doom…a rose by all these other names…with thorns that cut deep and pedals that caress with chaos, leaving a trail of bodies behind…bloomed too soon, Son Of The Morning…and then she asked me would I yes to say fuck yes my mountain goat and first I put my arms around her yes and drew her down to me so she could feel my cock and its perfume yes and her heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will fuck yes…and the traffic in the miles away provide the blanketing lie of silence, and his neck locking with tension for four minutes and thirty-three seconds, the phallus with its duplicity and divine ambivalence nestled between two warm pedaling skinny legs spent a lifetime hidden in pants, “Six Gnossienne No. 3 how did thou remember me if I had yet to be vomited forth from my mother’s hungering gash”? He whispers as tiny piano notes quiet and calm suddenly and violently jolt from the predatory jaws of the heavy keys from The Velvet Gentleman…and the glowing pearl playing the coquette behind the cold night clouds as the trail leads on shines her light upon old thoughts of neverwas…yes, she would exit the hot shower room with swirls of seducing steam behind her, yes, I did reach out to touch her dripping, wet body…nay, not with my small hand, but with the imagination the way a young boy imagines—the way, the only way he dares to dream—unseen…

 

 

 

It is the beginning of November—no, the end. I believe it’s a holiday today. The drones have left me empty streets to gobble down their dead birds and stuff themselves with all sorts of salty and fatty delights. I should be thankful for this gift.

 

I smile.

 

Through the dying greenery alongside the bike path, I smile. For I am also turning gray no longer green, and as I get older every holiday, nature with her violent brush…does stroke across this batter body…the way she sees fit…the way she sees art.

 

I laugh.

 

∞