batteries stroke myself like a craft
it ruining the touching
the desire shall out do whatever in seeing the will
masterpieces are such impatient emotional
railings.
your body is nothing but circular voltage.
Us, the so-called sophisticated lovers cleverly charmed by silly machines.
mind over matter, over hands and then my lips.
who cares about the flesh.
when battery operated lovers please acutely exaggerated precision science. spinning vibrations, it's the gravitational pull of a mythical orgasm.
a gspotted lie according to the devils who freed your hysteria from my hands.
I used to paint salival and sweat mosaics but now I can be brain bustededly passed over while with you train for the multiple bed Olympics.
once a slave to others.
now a control freak spinster master of your army of cats telling me to leave so as to not intrude on your bathed me time.
kudos grown ass woman.
throw away all packets of humanity.
you're artificial landscapes predict the demise of my lubricated peace of mind in your arms.
I've have nothing to give anymore sexually.
monogamous, polyamory you and me all useless societal constructs where techs involved.
replaced is exactly where you belong now.
One thumb liked and all eyes screened in you.
Flesh locked entwined in the embrace of mechanical artificiality.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PuisiSad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
