lose yourself in the ambiance splinter
hinder loose change collectors,
binge drink on roofs with underwear inspectors
those that watch by the dance floor, they do not hinder
my love is an empty cigar box
made of wood, from Cuba, on the rocks.
I don’t have love, I lied. Sorry to shock,
knock down the building blocks.
soul arm the assassin bluffing green
futz with an adam’s apple core spitfire
these words may sound like nothing mean,
but I wouldn’t test them, I heard they are tripwire…
lock me in a tussled haircut with gel dripping
who can escape the troubled irons
get a grip, it may be a nun stripping,
…or the bustle of a noisy appliance.
I’ll cop to the punishment with a little cream
it’s a brittle fortune, spent nicely
vegetable: you’re spittle contains a thousandth of a dream
tell the waitress I want ice tea.
you’re* so vain, so vain
you probably think this poem is about you, don’t you, don’t you.
well it is.
someday, I would like to get a blowjob reading this poem.
(there are other poems I would allow a bj during, but that is too private to reveal to the blog-world(the millions who read this), it’s more of an email(lifeinoleg at gmail dot com) question, or in person, but if in person, you must be at full ready to perform as poem is oralized.)
*there is no you, I’m a freakin’ poet, I can use hypothetical you’s. Respeck!