This is typical Tanya, run-on hip-hop rhythmic release of carnal combustion.
I need an affair; my poet’s heart is sleeping still,
Below the window sill upon the pale white bed,
White like doves in winter, like icy frills
We dread, those jagged wide-set teeth,
Which hang from rain-stained smiles
below mossy tiles upon cold heads -
I caught site of him from behind
His back, all dressed in black,
Fat boots and a tight Mohawk -
His face an upside down
gambrel roofed home
with two amber windows
And a French styled red door.
Austere and delicate,
A virtual tabula rasa upon which
To write or read. Avicenna believed
Empiricism and Syllogism
Were the minds methods -
But I know better: it is experience
Which breeds the soul black or white.
What, then, shall I write,
With these wan gray hands
That long to linger on 135
degree isoceles right
of chiseled steel,
to feel moist zephrys
Escape from behind closed doors?
A Victorian novel of intrigue
Perhaps, for the coffee table
Though for the art of uncensored
Decadence I’d sacrifice my body
to the cause - and pen a poem
Or two in the glowing aftermath,
With faint cherry hued cheeks
And the darling asleep beside me
On my newly warmed divan.
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Originally Posted by Countess
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