Lusty bone thrown

There must be something special to you
or I wouldn’t be drawn to
nor have declared that I dared to draw you,
but don’t think I’ll fawn over you if you
never give me an inch,
you’ll be just another bambi in a ditch,
I have an itch to scratch, and brambles
and ratchet limmericks won’t lick it,
You don’t trust me to put a knife on
your tongue but when I ask you
to open up or have some spunk
you’re numb, mute – it’s not cute,
this indifference, it’s an insult to
my witness, my patience, you’re not patient, you’re
lazy and latent and soon to be fated
to remain rather ragged and jaded and faded
for waxing upbraided to defend your stated
supposed goal of no soul, like a vole or blind mole, what a bore,
where is the royal whore I sensed on Sunday
among the boars eating bacon and snorin’
through sermons of worldplay and whorin’ vermin, will you
worm your way through every day like a leach
who never leaps from the bastion, past the bounds of his main-stay?
You’re not responsible enough to say I’m insensitive, lay,
I don’t do what I do to protect you but to mold you,
to protect those lips from the uncertainty of a boundless eternity,
and bind you away from the luster of dirty styx with no licks, and other ticks.
Am I trying to lie to you without having to guide you
or trying to guide you without having to lie to you
about where you lay without harming your
fragile loo brain – Would you have me say,
“O wise one, take the keys to infinity!” and watch you wheel
away toward boundless depravity in convincing ecstasy
that doesn’t matter to the questions you seek which appeal to you
or answer to me? Then whose responsibility is my choice to
give you a voice, to defy gravity, to hand you the keys you already had to me to peel away
my mystery, through our synchronistic history, willy nilly my dear? – Do you hear?

I’m the free
love kind of guy, I wanna kiss all the girls
in the sky but I can’t ’cause ya’ll couldn’t
handle that – you’d end up a bat in a bin – I’m talking about the psych ward
my little yardbird. I’m not controlling you, I’m only controlling the view to you to
protect me and you, you in me, really, and my philosophy – Can’t hand
Candy to a baby then give it car keys.
You think I call you small because I have no balls? No, I have the gall to do what a non-binary soul in the form of a narcissist gnome must, and
Maybe someday you’ll trust me when I’m
dead and musty, but right now I’m rather thrusty, and even if we never
meet, what must be must be, and thanks for inspiring me,
love,
This sounds like a new poem –
Nothing is wasted, dear, and no matter what you hear or
where you roam you’ll always be home, with me or alone –
or in a bottle or a moan, if you would only open your hole.

(The dissolve)

My Heron,

From here on I’ll leave you the choice of how to express your voice – “Ah” “um” “oh” or “Om” – for no cheap tweets are allowed in these seats.

Catch!

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