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Sunday, August 3, 2008

Making Love... A Confessional Poem


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




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


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


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



By L.M. Ross