We lay embraced in a tangle
of limbs and flesh-
unclothed from head to toe
before each other's eyes
and you are clearly
shy-
no man has looked upon you
as I do now,
with eyes of both love and lust:
passion.
And I, rarely shy,
am slightly embarassed now-
affected by your innocence,
I blush-
I like you.
The moon climbs high
as the hour hand drifts lazily
up and around the clock-
our breaths heavy with the labor
of love,
like two dogs in heat-
panting,
and we are in the heat
of one another's passion,
kissing, touching;
shyness melting away
just as we melt into one another,
two people becoming one
and when its all said and done
we lay embraced in a tangle
of limbs and flesh,
I holding you as no man
has done before.
19 February, 2015
Imitation
She was cute,
not sexy like a Victoria's Secret model,
but cute and clearly a reserved person,
but more importantly: she was a writer.
Her notebook was opened
three quarters of the way through,
different colored ink splashed
across the paper-
she clearly wrote whenever inspiration
came to her.
She looked at me before she got off the train
and offered a smile, which I returned.
If I was more like my poetic
heroes, inspirations, and predecessors,
revolving doors of sex, booze, and
hard times
I might have followed her,
we might have fucked
and wrote together and lived together-
and she might have dreamt
of keeping me for the long haul,
until my faults became too much for her
and then she'd leave me drunk and alone,
a miserable wreck, until the next one came through.
But, while I admire their writing and candor,
I don't live as they do.
So I watched her leave, taking it all in
one last time before I never
saw her again
and wrote this poem.
not sexy like a Victoria's Secret model,
but cute and clearly a reserved person,
but more importantly: she was a writer.
Her notebook was opened
three quarters of the way through,
different colored ink splashed
across the paper-
she clearly wrote whenever inspiration
came to her.
She looked at me before she got off the train
and offered a smile, which I returned.
If I was more like my poetic
heroes, inspirations, and predecessors,
revolving doors of sex, booze, and
hard times
I might have followed her,
we might have fucked
and wrote together and lived together-
and she might have dreamt
of keeping me for the long haul,
until my faults became too much for her
and then she'd leave me drunk and alone,
a miserable wreck, until the next one came through.
But, while I admire their writing and candor,
I don't live as they do.
So I watched her leave, taking it all in
one last time before I never
saw her again
and wrote this poem.
The Symphony
A symphony played on the metro
and I listened to it alone,
as no one else seemed to notice-
Where breaks met wheels and
wheels met tracks
a cacophony of sounds playing
an eerie melody,
stop-go-stop-go-stop-go
and people get on
and people get off,
but no one stops to wonder
at the magnificence of it all-
a metal tube hurdling underground
with millions of tons of concrete
above and around us,
an architectual marvel-
but people still get mad when
the metro is delayed five minutes,
because they never stop to take it all in,
tey never stop to listen
to the symphony
and I listened to it alone,
as no one else seemed to notice-
Where breaks met wheels and
wheels met tracks
a cacophony of sounds playing
an eerie melody,
stop-go-stop-go-stop-go
and people get on
and people get off,
but no one stops to wonder
at the magnificence of it all-
a metal tube hurdling underground
with millions of tons of concrete
above and around us,
an architectual marvel-
but people still get mad when
the metro is delayed five minutes,
because they never stop to take it all in,
tey never stop to listen
to the symphony
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