Fucking Words & Me
Or, if you prefer as a title
For this little write up, here,
Words, and pedophile me,
Unless that is too harsh,
And you wish I'd tell you a lie.
How much easier it might be,
then, right, to love me for me,
To love me forever, darling dear?
Or, to believe I might you.
There ain't no fucking metre, here,
Or really, even eloquence, to say the least.
Those guys, Neruda, and Cohen and Cummings,
They got all the words: they own them.
Where I just have those I borrow,
toss, sophomoric, and cavalier,
On one more funeral pyre,
One more banned book burning.
There's a fallacy, here, see dear,
In what I might see, worship and adore
To the end of days, were you mine.
Or is it, were I yours,
Or us ourselves?
K, so I'll toss me on up yet another
Silly analogy.
Maybe.
Is all poetry, especially that written by the common,
To would be lovers, bits and pieces of one’s heart,
Ripped out and splattered, sloppy on the page,
Smudged and bloody and by the time one’s done
Unrecognizable?
Tolstoy, I think it was, said something like,
One ought not dip one's pen in the inkwell
If he doesn't intend to leave some part
Of himself on the (finished or unfinished) page.
Right. Right. And if I break it into random
And arbitrary lines and stanzas, I don’t think,
Not really, that it makes it more pretty,
Or ugly, or anything more than words.
So what was that analogy, any old way,
That drifted through my head, yesterday?
Ugh, never mind, laughing out loud
Just, never mind.
Seriously, that rhyme was so not intended.
Please believe me on that much.
I was thinking of all those tiny tight asses,
Of course, yes, which I saw at the water park the day before.
But underneath that, I was thinking of your texts,
And those flat chests, untested flesh and feeling.
Oh fuck, I really ought to give up,
But nah, what was it you said
In those delivered words, besides
Sorry, no, I don't think so?
That you wanted, that you needed
To be the center, always, of my universe.
That you could never, ever compete,
Not in the long run, with that so taught,
Fresh bottomed little girl, right?
How they would, how they will
Slay me always.
So yeah, I was lying there thinking
Of just some words I might use
To make some pretty comparison,
Some worthy analogy.
And there were roses, fresh in the spring
And early summer, so light dew running
From the edge of their petals,
And sure as you and I to fade and die.
And the thorns, especially,
those were well in attendance
In those thoughts, too.
And I thought, well, maybe someday
Maybe someday I'll be able to combine
Those parts and say something pretty,
Make some play on those thorns.
What was it though? It skips me.
Something like, oh, what?
I can look at it, I can even smell it,
But only you can soften those thorns
To the point I might hold it close to me,
Wrap my arms round it and crush it
Into my chest and self, and not bleed.
Mkay, though, darling dear,
I ain't no poet, and it is highly unlikely
I ever will be, so I will cut, now
To a more real analogy.
That one, that rhyme I intended,
By matter of demonstration.
So, let me tell you something, though,
As Neruda would say.
Let me tell you something not as
Pretty as he would unlikely be able to do,
About the things went on as I wrote these words
Ostensibly, and sweetly, to you.
Again, a rhyme to reiterate, which, is a redundancy, too.
Neruda, Cummings, or Cohen,
Has any of these ever included
The words "cock" or 'cunt" between
Their lines of love?
Smiling,
Your sweet dripping cunt,
My hard aching cock.
K, though, I'll cut to the chase, now,
Of all these stanzas and words.
While I wrote 'em,
even though I didn't know
This is how it would turn out,
I paged through pictures of ones
Like those I saw at the water park.
Here and there along the way
I saved one, two, maybe 30?
Here and there along the way,
I let my guard down, too, and let myself
Ache.
Sure are pretty, yup.
Sure are taut, yup.
And, oh my god, how round and small.
And, I can only imagine how
They must smell, let alone feel.
At the end of all that, though,
Even though, right now, I could so
Let my guard
All the way down,
Settle for that
Picture; horny, settle for that thorny
Thorny, beautiful rose in a garden.
Pump, and splash,
Hot semen, up and out of my cock
And down over my fingers,
And onto my thighs.
Smiling.
Is this where I should say
You never promised me a rose garden, dear?
Maybe not, but oh how I can so see it.
Anyway, yah, point is,
At the end of all that beauty
And all this silliness
I only wanted you.
Your smile, your eyes, your self.
I still do.
I dunno. They're only just words,
So what can you do,
Except make a demonstration
Of just how inadequate they are?
Maybe I should write some more of them
Even though, I'm pretty sure it does not really matter.
But I will, because I haven't a whole lot else to do.
Smiling. Fuck yes, baby, fuck yes at 2_.
How could I not?
And at 40?
The thing is, its not about loving her in you,
Or fucking her, in you, or having her in you.
Rather, it's about you, and me, and us.
At the end of the day,
""of love,"" Cohen might say,
(and, here's where the fallacy I mentioned at the top comes in)
at the end of all these words
She has very little to do with anything,
And has fled, and is gone, as always.
Where, you remain.
K, giving up, now.
Almost.
"Fuck me, daddy, fuck me now."
When those words, and that sentiment
flow not just from your mouth or fingers,
but from your eyes and smile and self
That beauty will never fade.
I love you.