AGAIN
A slip of tongue
a sense of shame
grave salivations and
a slide down your
sloping sled
my head
your bed
rolling
curling
tumbling
Until you wipe me dry
like a butter knife to a drooling fly…
But what’s my purpose?
That’s not important.
I am here to mend you or bend you
you like a screen door…
breathing, but not quite breaking…
To prowl at night with a page of Poe
on my left and a pack of smoke on my right
I am here to read you Faulkner and Kerouac
while you rest your back
on tub,
my charms will imprison you…
Until this phallic penetration
destroys your concentration…
And then I am free
But what’s my purpose?
That’s not important.
To suffer the wounds of your discontent
and to wind you like a clock
cloaked in deep cleavages
I am here to heal you
and feel you
surrender to these sly words
sooth the aches of your
angered days
suck the sadness
from you stiffed loins
and toss coins…
just to see
the head and tails
the reds that pale
the sheets we split
the lips we sip from…
But what’s my purpose?
That’s not important.
Jay Mendoza
(1978 ----)
YOU ARE READING
OLD SOULS (Poems and other Blurbs)
PoésieWords and other sounds from an open cavity hole of a man who... after so many years... has finally become old... by Jay Protacio Mendoza
