GAY MACHO PLEASURES ON AUTUMN AFTERNOONS,
You weave a song about the hypocritical stance of bodies;
Compatibility rating is positive, floating,
As it works in the issue shared by both men,
Like an offer, indirect, trying to recall the sight
Of the individual's imaginative role in contemporary society.
49 years later, snooping through lesbianism
In a motor vehicle that runs on vanilla erotica,
She rejected sex altogether some nine times.
The odd admirer may be tantamount to this
Wednesday morning maintaining the glare of the bedroom,
Your head against a women's movement while we wait;
She riding on another body for every human act of love,
A motion tinged with blood,
But extricating women from behind
We know the ghosts hung on your dick;
Orgasm is entirely unconscious
Like condensation on ripe fruit, instead of mimesis.
So liking you desperately, she wanted the penis.
You must believe that the only solid gold mouse is a woman
With blood that stains my handkerchief.
The act comes to fight for his contention that the haunting face
Is the "Real thing" in the moon.
May the wild winds of frost return to what remains of flame.
Surely her teeth sank high in his penis and hearts gorged
On the real thing of yore with ungainly fowls whose footfalls tinkled.
This grim denying of the lamplight
Perfumed from this improbable pursuit,
Represents no token of what will be right,
Gloating over, and nothing further then to remember
But Madam, and childish superstitions.
Suppose we eat beans before taking the teeth again,
She aggressively appropriates without griping pains or the devil,
Leaves because the wait also reinforces
And Butch finally messes up what this is charged for access.
This I stood repeating, in a flirt and came again.
Both men eagerly feel that the male body is underrepresented,
As if she retains a drachma of rhubarb,
To harden the teeth, and to make them sound and white.
Back through the sound of sweet trees,
Whose velvet violet roots become entirely white rose vinegar
They will remove neuralgia from the onion,
Though thy God hath spoken!
A mouthful of landscape signifies simply that snatch of white cream in my chamber.
Dominant sexual positions are presumed to be still waiting,
Though her startling announcement covers your eyes with femininity.
Who gathers then to watch her clear the distance,
To form from your head the tiny object whose fond mutation about the day will appear.
I add weight to hear the lamplight gloated o'er
In any dusty matter, and all about a cushioned seat.
Other terms occupy the risk of a woman thus betrayed.
Precisely this space becomes increasingly assertive about the dreaded future of almonds,
The angels tapping somewhat louder, rather than banning it!
© Gerald England
Composed: Gee Cross, 5th June 1994
1998 pURL (Internet)
Flowers at Fleetwood
2 months ago