Confession:
I've made Love
Far more times
Than I've ever had
Sex. My
Imagination is
A whore… yes… but my body
Has been
A temple
Composed of
Fear and Poetry and
Hope for romance. The penis
Is a jerk meat
With piss-
Poor judgment.
It works,
It rises, it throbs when
We breathe.
It pretends to be
A magician...
No rabbits, only
The fluid of
Lust cums
From its hat.
Me? I've always dreamed
Bigger
Wider
Better
Than that, and so…
I've made love
More times than
I've ever had
Sex. Yet,
My head,
My home has been
A promiscuous dome
Where Illicit
What Ifs play
Twenty-four-sevenly.
This is what we
Men do. We thrust
Our erections into
Illusions and
When we arrive
We come...
Into the reality
That we are most alone
Inside this bed
In our heads.
But sex with no emotion
Was too easy, too dangerous,
So instead
I've made love to faces with names,
To orifices with brains
And souls who fell
Shamelessly to their
Knees.
And I've fallen, too
Before false gods
And goddesses, who
Made me kneel
At the alter of
Some thing
That felt
Soft and Hard…and Real, like
Love.
One.
By L.M. Ross
