This is my 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
Apprehension and Tolerance, Poetry and
A reed-thin Hope for romance.
The penis
Is a jerk
With piss-
Poor judgment.
It works,
Rises, performs as
We breathe.
It can pretend to be
A magic wand...
It can abracadabra us away from
Loneliness...
But only the fluid of
Lust appears
From its hat.
And 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 stick our erections deep into
Illusions and
Come
Into the reality
That we are most alone
Inside this bed
Within 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 altar of
Some thing
That felt
Soft and Hard… and Real, like
Love.
One.
copyright © 2005 and 2010 by L.M. Ross
