With more skat
than a stray cat
can poke his eyeballs at
the punk
in the Midnight Choir
starts to twist and shout
Yet …
the All in All
all too beautiful
for even a bird on a wire
to sing about
Like that
concert hall in Vienna
where your lips
were so warm and wet
Getting a feel
of the real deal
… that love thing
Upon a mission
a royal commission
seeking foremost
the rock solid Kingdom
It all starts from within
Seizing the living moment
Best be in it
to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
To find truth
without love
or at least a trace
of faith and hope
like trying to climb
the highest peak
of Mount Everest
naked
without oxygen
or even a rope
Not saying it can’t be done
but man …
sounding much like
a clanging gong
in the Temple
of a world gone wrong
Or have I found
that love thing?
From the mire
of the dire basement
that we’re standing in
try as you might
to sight the heavens
across the endless skies
Far better
in the light
seeing the world
through heaven’s eyes
Heart and Soulful
Holy Mindfulness
is the rightful place
where we all belong
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I too
have tried
in my way
to be free
If it be your will
then let it be
Yet
here on earth
they sentenced me
to forty years of mayhem
for spying
the celebrants
of sin
Tell me
where does
this world end
and the next begin?
Because
I don’t like your
toxic culture mister
And I don’t like
the choir
you’re singing in
I don’t like Big Brother’s
twisted little sister
The King
of everything
He’s coming back
He’s coming to reward them
The King of hearts
and minds
the Prince of Peace
returning
But first
we seek the Kingdom
Then let freedom ring
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’ve been buried
and I’ve been dug up
I call it grace amazing
You called it dumb luck
And thank you
for those items
that you sent me
The stone monkey
and the ink
under my skin
I’ve tunnelled
towards the light
and now I’m ready
First
we occupy the Kingdom
then
let the revolution begin
Yes … Jesus was a sailor
when he walked upon the water
Seeking the lost at sea
and the drowning
The stranger
the gambler
and me
And Leonard Cohen
he’s sailing on
to the Tower of Song
Through all
the rise and fall
the pulp fiction
from hell’s kitchen
I really like
to walk
that tightrope, baby
I really like
to hear
those Sirens sing
But to see that nightmare
of deception
prowling through creation
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom starts with
Remember me?
I use to to live
without rhyme or reason
Remember me?
I plugged your Hi-Fi in
You loved me as a loser
You’d hate
to ever see me win
With Christ Jesus
my ship has finally
come in
No longer tied
to a kitchen chair
With a Glory
and a broken Hallelujah!
But first
we take the Kingdom
Losing it all to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’m counselled
by a whisper
from the heavens
Once I was blinded
by visions in a spin
Now it’s …
So long Chicken Maryland
That frozen turkey
who nearly did me in
For now I’m guided
by the beauty of creation
and a thirst
for the Kingdom
where I first heard
those angels sing
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom begins within
And Leonard Cohen
he’s singing along
from the Tower of Song
~ by David B. Redpath © 2017-20
Artwork;
‘La Musica Sacra’
~ by Luigi Mussini
Photography:
David B. Redpath © 2017-20
David Redpath 
peoples abandoned
because they were irregular
extraterrestrials perhaps
pebbles and boulders
dark and nocturnal
unchanging eyes
focused
the speed and stress varies
the hand over the mouth, words recast
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newcomers to the peoples abandoned
irregulars so to speak
stacks of elevator
shoes
I saw the signature of Jack Kerouac
Jack was destructive, proud of his destruction
constantly asking himself, “am I a pamphlet or a booklet ?”
he was running hot, steam leaked from his fissures
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Kerouac cried tears of beer when
the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test bus
drove into his New York apartment.
Yippee hippies all over the place.
Flower power people come to pay
homage to the genius genie who
had. drained the beat poetry out of
a near empty bottle of American
post war culture. Frigid with cold
cold war nuclear paranoia, having
contracted that Vietnam fever.
Kerouc, dumbstruck as he realised
that somehow he was responsible
for a lost generation of tripped out
children, couldn’t get out of there
fast enough, and regurgitate his
words on the road of desolation.
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hitching a ride out of town/out of time
Daddy proud of his hungry children
who take turns coloring his sequence
of selves, coloring the future seasons
———————-
———————-
paralyzed by the computer
debris has become sacred
poetry in a death match
with moss and fungus
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the quick fix
an endless prolix
of soapbox slogans
and parroted wisdoms
extracted and dissected
the poetry of pulsating organs
caught between the sinking sands
of a slow motion death wish
and a proselytizing felonious phallus
diving the depths of a petri dish
Diatribes of tribal affiliations
spawned from a post-mortem culture
recited ad nauseam
by the vultures of predation
ever seeking yet another victim
on that road to desolation
enjoying their moment in the sun
a frolicking roller-coaster of fun
fearing only the Kingdom to come
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the struggle has arrived
when the night plays tricks
the sounds of the mind in reverse
the beast stomach swallowing itself
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“Ain’t it just like the night
to play tricks when you’re
tryin’ to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded,
though we’re all doin’
our best to deny it.” ~ Bob
The gift of divine resistance.
That deep peace
within the embrace
of holy mindfulness,
as within a strong tower
tasting of flowing abundance.
Down below. a blessed silence,
God’s loving grace
… that power to surpass,
creating a safe place,
forcing all darkness to go.
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working hard for the sake of working hard
the night of death cometh, my virus son
the poet alone in his father’s pasture
womenfolk scrubbed long and hard
inherent character deficiency
forgive, forget, repair
bury us shallow
that we might
sniff fresh
air
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Big Daddy issues
grow from the fissures
of souls wounded
ever seeking
a box of tissues
A greater wholeness
of inner space
where all shades
of darkness flow in balance
from the artist’s brush
giving colour and depth
to this existence
Weaved into the fabric of light
there is darkness
And then …
there’s the Outer Darkness
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darkness is the foundation of everything
a blanket for geography
both friend and foe
of weather
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Creation is destruction
Destruction is creation
Change never ending
The future keeps on coming
A past needing rearranging
Take a deckchair on the Titanic
When life needs reframing
Time itself is asking the question
What on Earth are you doing?
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sitting on the porch waving at people heading south
touching realistic feeling falsies purchased online
the yard is full of indigenous magic symbols
many mask or muddle sexual tension
any cross-signaling is dangerous
pain at the hands of others
humiliation with details
an entry in a medical
dictionary
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I remember when I was young
an old derelict sitting on a park bench.
If ever you were to brave the stench
and ask his name, a guttural grunt
is all you’d get
. . . for he was the Aqualung.
He may only have been a hobo,
but surely he was worthy of a song.
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the white family dancing around the flames
expanding the description for “normalcy”
senior citizens contemplating
their diminishing options
alcohol, anger, violence
children selling kisses
juvenile delinquents
on the Arc
——-
——-
Joan Baez warning Dylan
that she was a hard cookie
a rough-and-tumble bounce
no substitutes for a strong dong
ride the train, ride all night long
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The never ending
expansion of normalcy,
with it’s corresponding
contraction of extremity.
Once, whilst travelling with
a certified correspondent
for that women’s magazine,
Extreme Supreme, the big
secret was revealed to me.
The Mother of Conspiracy,
from the other end
of the spectrum, beyond
the outer edge of reality.
Just as the good citizens
of Placebo Town believe
it is safe to poke their heads
above ground in the hope that
things are back to normal
(normal being the state
of Big Lack
in 50 shades of black),
that’s when a new wave
of deranged strange will pounce,
screaming,
“Vive la différence!” …
in a broken French accent.
The devastation will be total,
and with abnormal consequence.
Yet, much richness will be gleaned
from the rubble of darkness.
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Art Linkletter (I know the name but he is no longer a memory)
crooked used car dealers analyzing poetry
“you want a job you look the other way”
the wife believes in miracles
never too late to replace
add or subtract
from the repertoire
nickels and dimes
strings pulled
until all of this
becomes a famous
leopard-skin-pill-box-twat
(+) the new wife begs for more sex
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I know that relentless feeling.
It stays with me all the time.
Kinda like a mattress balancing
on a bottle of wine 🍾
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a portrait of the personal mattress
a Giotto aura around it
the sleeping pad
with a Christ-
like feeling
Daddy
the kid home from college
says, “the mattress screams
an appraisal of your sexual antics”
the ego of the mattress predicts tomorrow
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the mattress is a domestic creature
that courts wild animals
poets listen
to the stream of dialogue
distorted and exaggerated
disco-dancing and leaking
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from the moment you’re born
life on the mattress
is a balancing act
sleep walking the endless streets
of mythology and facts
whilst underneath the sheets
you’re the all-conquering star
of your very own
amateur porn show
in between the stained pages
where poetry is torn
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Loch Ness worm under the covers
amateur porn at its best
huge cotton balls
to soak up fluids
Jack Kerouac Lube
store bought/home made
reminiscent of board wax
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the unnamed
silent guiding hand
that continues to push
the shadow of death away
the differences and similarities
on the back of the wagon in full sight
poets of yesterday and poets of today
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to elude one’s proper molding
self-recreation
—————————–
behind a locked door
leisure of solitude
—————————–
the peopled scene
now just weeds
—————————–
sin is more than a night-warbling bird
dark flames stimulate the blind sinners
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The sin bin ain’t all
it’s cracked up to be
There’s a sure fire
way to cure
the perpetually guilty
For the repentant
it’s absolutely free
and comes
with a saintly guarantee
A gift that keeps on
giving in perpetuity
with the holy and souly
supernatural ability
to set the captive free
so one can become
what one was truly
always meant to be
Now that I see 👁️👁️
sin just isn’t the fun
that it use to be
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ANOTHER ABSTRACTION
an item to fill up an empty moment of time
thoughts planted in your mind
and you think of them as yours
in a crisis, Lennon followed
the path of his enemy
in every photo
the living idol
no sanctity
no shading screen
could save him from the wrath
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A sign of things to come …
Lennon busted for possession
when a publicity seeking policeman
planted a bag of cannabis
in John and Yoko’s London home.
He took the rap when the Man
threatened to deport a pregnant Yoko
back to where she came from
unless he falsely confessed.
Whether he was right or wrong,
Lennon did his best with an act
of Don Quixote style gallantry,
as befits a man who so eloquently
employed his skills tilting at windmills.
That archway at the entrance
of his New York apartment
was no fit place
for the Walrus to meet his end.
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elderly Episcopalians at the library
looking at volumes of hermaphrodites
big ones, small ones, the really odd ones
bourbon whiskey was weak, a slow turner
the women become coin-operated and no fun
bourbon whiskey with a rainbow of oil slick on top
the menfolk get frisky but end up covered in chili vomit
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the children screeching
as their parents whacked them
tilting like windmills
with no one to be
kind
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you stick a nickel in
knowing it could tolerate another 5
last night a stranger talked meat and potatoes
up you all the way on the linoleum
I said your name but you looked away
like I was less than your sweet lover boy
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it was so important that I arrive
that I left everything behind
Adam might list my past
but my time is short
God is known
to cut one
short
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I saw where they pay for your teeth
your beautiful healthy teeth
a circle of angels
were weeping
I joined them
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the guys talk about their dongs
like a fuzzy tree with an itch
some quick jerks
before the curtain goes up
a reach-around
lucky boy
Conquistadores at the Truck Stop
straight guys improvise
two minutes total
return to the wife
fatigued
(+) vending machines that sell maps and candy
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Jungle Jim
in the fuzzy forest
swinging through the trees
Junk hanging down
flopping all around
as in a hurricane breeze
Always in a hurry
in some jungle fever
all itchy and scratchy
from some monkey disease 🙊
(since Jim is a big Cheetah🐒)
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one hour to live
how many times
can I shoot myself ?
I’ve drank the cough syrup
and rolled the tar on foil
the pipe was stolen
or misplaced
like a giant novel
people show me their ink
I prefer short stories of road burn
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empty buildings where people must have had it rough
by the looks of things, who could have survived ?
children chewed on the furniture
sucking taste from the wood
I asked God why
got no reply
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on Thanksgiving
the children were permitted
to chow-down on imported cherry wood
like crazed beavers on stimulants
they were known to bite
other children
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MEANWHILE IN THE
WILD WILD WEST
teeth marks
in the cherry wood
isn’t it good
a high fibre diet
and the money is good
in the desperate riot
of a stimulated frenzy
WHILST EAST OF EDEN
where the fruit
falls into your lap
from the family tree
daughters entrapped
within the chastity belt
of an inbred dowry
a voice from the garden
of a captive harem
crying out
set my body free
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what if Tennessee Williams had worn a tiny loin cloth
and called himself, Jungle Jim ?
wasp stings
or other poets cheering me up
inspiring me
stale potato chips
Baby, got a world of stale potato chips
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In the nautical section
of the Library Truck Stop
Scandinavian sailors
sit at the bar
eating soggy beer nuts
reciting Icelandic poems
and telling tall tales
of marauding Vikings
They care little
for Robert Frost
nor Tennessee Williams
Neither are the keepers
of the pool hall keys
at the Valhalla Grand Plaza
Their words
are no vaccination
against that relentless strain
of the Walmart variant
infecting a new generation
Old potatoes and placebos
Without fresh fish and chips
there can be no solution
as life becomes just
a pale stale mutation
upon an endless ocean
of digital self promotion
A shipwreck of the
gastronomically pathetic
A certain antibiotic
is keeping an eye on the prize
and a discerning open mind
for the astronomically poetic
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living in a world filled with yapping dogs
females in the library draw you to them
with silence
you make eye contact
waiting for the one
with wet lips
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I took all of the Robert Frost books
and misplaced them about the library
3 long years and they’ve not been missed
sometimes I feel guilty, the rat bastard poet
he may be long gone but his words still stink
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Scandinavian sailors at the Truck Stop
say that they don’t feel a thing
teenie weenie Americans
sarcastic young men
grunting satyrs
foreskin city
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people want life to be like television
to be as gifted as Tennessee Williams
to be in a loin cloth battling an alligator
soaked with perspiration from pouty lips
unconscious sexual desires pedaling bicycles
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life within a filter bubble
the daily struggle
of shopping mall survival
like a shot of botox to the face
choosing what to wear
to highlight the despair
a tattoo perhaps
with a cheeky glimpse
of the latest
designer underwear
just what would
Kim Kardashian do
if she was in your place?
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K.K. experience:
Kim was displaying her insides on the outside
and she left a stain on my favorite shirt
alphabetical seating
secretly, poets loved it
anything to escape the imprisonment
of being a caricature with questioning eyes
with one look, the detective employed his handcuffs
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Many a Scandinavian sailor
has checked in
to the Paris Hilton
and never been heard of again
The dance hall siren
who drives mere mortal men
to the edge of madness
only to drown them
in the vastness of her whim
That endless ocean
of pleasure and pain
Just soak your shirt overnight
in the salt-water of her delight
to remove any stain
Your bare bones
will be bleached
whiter than white
from the heat of her naked flame
Life is a beach
with a whirlpool of lust
ever within reach
for the dumbstruck fool
There’s never
anyone else to blame
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citizenship in Heaven
people in a hurry
many step on Jesus
and fail to apologize
——one thinks in the language of God
——one communicates with that language
poets sleep in a Holy nest
unfiltered dreams
feathers off the wing
(+) the layers of sin must peel away
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possessed of genius but little else
Americans flying kites
in electrical storms
the menfolk concerned with the size
of their antennae
the females applying makeup
so thick that it flaked off
bare-chested
people only stared
at their faces
eyes
nose
and a rather obscene mouth
put a finger in there
slowly feel around
no secrets
pudgy lips
a shade of pink
that would drive
a man to leak his pants
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“It’s not the size
of the antenna,
it’s the precision
of the transmission.”
American woman sniggering
at the rusting saxophone
of Bill Clinton
Even a thick layer
of that pink lipstick
on Bill’s mouthpiece
no longer does the trick
Just to think
Hillary Rodham
the ramrod of much envy
now covered
in flaccid pity
How are the mighty fallen?
The triumphant Trump
now a loser and a chump
Sooner or later
even he’ll be forgotten
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possessed of genius but little else
Americans rolling around in sin
thick layer after layer
the soul liquefying
into a puddle
(self-hatred ?)
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shame ridden like a bicycle
creatively fetishized
eroticized contact
with the seat
pleasurable
pressure
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INADEQUATE
to more obviously desirable ones
years and years of scrutiny
never good enough
sniffing the pee
of others
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DESIDERATA
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may
be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater
and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well
as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career,
however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing
fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue
there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and
disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of
youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you
in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark
imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue
and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding
as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be, and
whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace
with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery,
and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
~Max Ehrmann
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trembling with anticipation
every day is Halloween
in a small town
lipstick on the dick
(not Maori tribal dick)
dating a college quarterback
his coughs reek of semen
he claims its his reserve
in polite company
hobby seed
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I spent many a moon
with the peoples
of the Long White Cloud
Living amongst the Kiwis
when I was very young
I spied those cheeky Tikis
poking out a naughty tongue
I remember saying to Mick Jagger
that would make a fun
Rolling Stones album cover
as it reminds me
of a certain someone
Mick raised a sticky finger
and the next thing you know
the Lips and Tongue logo
became the star of the show
The Tiki is for protection
so take the Maori warning
if you see Mick Jagger coming
hold on to your Kiwi talisman
and run like a son of a gun
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holding hands at the library
edge of the cliff sheer excitement
what beautiful words would jump out
how many inspiring ideas could we carry out
(+) the librarian was never a white authoritative male
strangers often quiz themselves about horrible aberrations
(seamless rounded sphere with no butt crack or ability to pass gas)
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no secret about all the correspondence
I exchange mail with prisons
on both coasts
people need money
they know the routine
witchcraft was once tobacco cigarettes
but not now, 20 people off a miscellaneous puff
I refuse to deal in people or exotic animals
sometimes I look the other way
guilty hands in gloves
crystallization
in control
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you mention Jagger with his sticky finger
cut out piddling with intermediaries
therapy at the public library
the Cave of Knowledge
native Americans
long gone away
hold me tight
I am them
they say
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The correspondence
on the abstract subject
of versatile universalism
left the Head Librarian
feeling like nothing
but a biological microcosm.
I told her
that having a womb
was no Temple of Doom.
She then asked me
if I could be a facsimile
Indiana Jones for her.
After a quick lie-down
that took forever
in a mirrored room
where her keys were kept
she felt much better.
A little later, as she slept,
I snuck down
to a subterranean cavern,
an ancient catacomb
it would seem
by all the old skeletons
hanging about.
There I unlocked
her secret vault
containing the sacred scrolls
of the Kingdom to come.
Without making a sound.
I then made my way out
into the the sunlight.
That Cave of Knowledge
deep under the ground
is always well hidden
from the surfaces dwellers
of Placebo Town.
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layers of surface dwellers
many taking tight corners
at seventy miles an hour
layers of surface dwellers
many driven a plow
behind a mule
Dylan singing about
sustained concentration
the words were different
but the tune was the same
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patrolling for live embers
there in the region of the dying
darkness under a blanket of clouds
a silence pierced by my personal shame
I made every effort to be more than average
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“The aim of art is to represent not
the outward appearance of things
but their inward signifigance.”
~ Aristotle
All is vainglory under the Sun.
Public pride is nothing to be proud of.
Equally, personal shame
is nothing to be ashamed of.
Both will keep a rabbit on the run
in every, and any, direction.
Being guilty is the natural condition
of fallen man. Repentance is both
a stumbling block and a crucial part
of the grand salvation plan.
I just do my best
to keep a weather eye open
for the visible manifestation.
“The poet is the priest of the invisible.”
~ Wallace Stevens
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my community
was I trimmed out
with fancy scissors
or just ripped out by force
(+) galloping horseback passion
(+) a daily grind of sex served on a platter
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natural selection
lust and passion
that mutant strain
of viral domination
the law gravitational
the variant inevitable
vainglorious deviants
of time and space
all going down
to Placebo Town
a big bang happening
tasting like fruition
with a fulfilment feeling
beyond sight and sound
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relatives propped up on pillows
they were good for a snapshot or two
no one spoke of my age, my inconvenience
a failure at death, a novelty seeking asylum
life: a series of events without pause to the present
many a thing that need not be spoken yet not forgotten
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a heavenly city
a hellish lake of brimstone
PLACEBO TOWN
rivers of death
underworld poetry
the Serpent on railroad tracks
@ poets motionless and moving
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Meanwhile
in suburbia
the flightless birds
of social media
squawk in their burrows
endlessly scavenging
over the carcass
of a stolen poem
who’s time has passed
and is yet to come
wisdom words borrowed
but never truly spoken
under a blazing sun
the Ostrich always keeps
his head down
in Placebo Town
all a flightless bird can do
is run
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Happy Hour was looking over my shoulder
breathing down my neck
the children
at home masturbating
freedom in confinement
touch yourself
don’t touch others
most important——-HIDE
poetry giving form
to anxious disillusionment
drifting darkness
surrounds
the inmates of the house
“secret within a secret”
masturbatic satisfaction
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Boys with their bats and balls
pitching on an itching mound
of distraction.
In the imagination
girls full of admiration
for a home run.
Another social pleasantry
in a land of big plans
with swollen glands
given little satisfaction.
Masturbation ain’t all
it’s cracked up to be.
But it does come in handy,
as generally it comes for free,
and is always
in mass production.
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perhaps the serpent was a hand
Eve rubbed off the first nut
and said,
“Adam, I got something to show you”
the sexual self-portrait
—————————–
THE SEXUAL SELF-PORTRAIT
—————————–
religious imagery wearing a coat of sexual symbolism
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Religiously
and most regularly
just a lingering finger
on the scales
does seem to turn
my syphon into a python🐍
but that would be telling tales 😎
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puberty being the dangerous snake
the Devil with his eggs and sperms
children having no idea
adventures on the
razor edge
alcohol and automobiles
clumsy rock and roll
squirrels in the head
a steady purr
a joyful bark
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Romance
or happenstance
that dance without pants?
Fertility is the province
of providence
requiring much governance
In the blinding flash
of a biological splash
loaded guns
placed in the hands
of pubescent children
The chemistry momentarily
transcendent
for glands swollen
and on the run
Take me back to the Garden
Life at it’s most resplendent
with a loving touch from above
What is this existence
without a little sanctified fun?
Take me back to Eden
I just can’t wait
for the Kingdom to come
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stereotypes immediately recognizable
the display of dongs
social shorthand
maladjusted
males
romping at the Truck Stop
the element of the unknown
communication, cooperation
strengths misperceived as weaknesses
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a sort of reality check
pull off the highway and explode
wash up and make small talk with a stranger
return home to gray instant mashed potatoes
a vegetable of choice, the endless evening news
how many infected, how many died, a virus with barbs
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torments of thought
torments of conscience
putting the soul
in jeopardy
of hellfire
relatives whispering in you ear
that death is a gift
you find yourself a fleshed-out
reproduction of Adam
commemorative plates
for teeth
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a stream of naked people
emerging from a far gate of hell
they who are gifted with a new flesh
Norwegians and Swedes scrubbed clean
the art of telling, the challenge of listening
poetry was never as satisfying as fistfighting
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never satisfying
those fistfighting Vikings
a stream of naked language
emerging from the art of poetry
the telling gifted with new flesh
the challenge of listening
the people scrubbed clean
far from the gates of hell
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arrive in heaven
to find yourself working two jobs
one that is salaried and one that isn’t
“equal godliness within equal godliness”
two sides to salary
cabbage stew and cotton candy
a tad bit more masculine each day
the road to the Kingdom is genderized
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fish have been searching for alternatives to water
Americans wanting to identify with the government
rather than conquer it, replace it with the laws of nature
superior performance in the bedroom
or one finds themselves restricted
low self-esteem in a circle
old, weak, possibly prey
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wake up to the calendar on the wall
Norwegians and Swedes in a glossy photo
naked as naked can be, scrubbed to perfection
the hint of heavenly scented soap in their hair
the suggestion that you might gift them
with adoration and oral pleasure
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10 minutes of hanging out with Freud
and I found myself unable to tell the truth
I lied about everything
even the color of my hair
Freud with his time-consuming detours
intellectual jousting with male anatomies
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