A poem of distinct beauty,
a written spill of things once said and re-said.
Complex verbal reconfigurations,
A psychos babble?
A hermits’ wisdom?
A winos’ ravings?
Sweet-hot, pussy lips squeeze over my plump swollen cock-head, moist, tight grip slides slowly down my shaft, wet heat on my balls.
Priorities, priorities, Daniel!
Ice creams, chasing girls, vodka,
hobbies and idle hands, idle hands, idle hands.
I rub MY hand over her cotton lump,
the hair nest and heat, an erotic tease to me and a nuisance to her.
I am: greasy, dark, hairy, hot, wet, sweet, bent.
“The ol’ meth wallow, sometimes a pleasant adventure,
sort of sick and immature, but brings to mind younger days, twenty four hour days, seven days a week.”
Sweet follies, bitter jack-offs, bad decisions and foul moods.
As the aristocrats would say:
“violin highs and cello lows”
So, is THIS a poem of distinct beauty?
A psycho’s babble?
Or a perfectly normal method of self-introspection?