Saints With Droopy Faces

I am not a poet of goodness only, I do not decline

to be the poet of evil also,” – Walt Whitman.

 

They come out assembled in ones

Men with an edge

Husbands with daughters and sons

Their sons almost my age

These men my mouth has loved.

 

Hands touching hands,

Pot bellies, clothed thighs

Strange hairy chests

Sad stern eyes.

 

Vulnerable for mother

Barely half, their own age

They reach out in an embrace

For the rush. The excitement.

Young. Youthful lust.

 

Abandoned street corners

A friend’s borrowed car

A faraway house;

well lite, polished floors, 50k to lodge

What purpose serves honesty

When anonymity is key?!

 

Answers to questions

unasked; yes I am happily married.

There is something, special about you.

Your ass. Your sweet sexy small ass.

 

Their ring finger noticeably bare

My bare parts soaking wet

That circular singular sacred symbol of

love or

commitment, to one that’s not me

Rolls discarded,

entangled in my blues,

pinks and reds.

 

Eyes on my tits. The moment is passed

Our mouths disengage

No ‘I love you’s’ exchanged

Thoughts form unhinged

Let’s not , do this again

tomorrow.

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2 Comments Add yours

  1. Steven says:

    This is sad in a strange kind of way

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