he had garbed himself in a woolen suit
as we merged our sheepish circumstances,
wolfen grin guised by garish dentures,
as we danced...


now, there he lied :
immortalized through squandered poetic output,
synonymously decapitated and educated
via the meanderings of a scarred poet’s outlook:
emaciation resulting from his dishonest obesity,
using poetry as a means of emotional therapy,
privately, seeking to ultimately take responsibility
for actions that i can only bring back to…

…me.


he

satiating his vapid ego
by the non-subtle nuances of my words’ flow
wanting to bend me over backwards,
“spread ass eagle”
with a view to inject me with his hypodermic needle;
needling me to subdue me to his will,
and his narcissistic, perverse poetic thrill,
possibly poisoning my essence with his
arsenic loaded quill,
whilst i, continually feed him verse geared towards
the formation of a non-existent character,
refusing to don a victim’s stance,
throughout the mechanisms of his poisoned inhabitance
of my vagina’s loyal circumstances;

i, circumcising his broken bic,
with the sharpened edge of my poetic wit,
becoming the magical puppeteer,

programming pinocchio to conform
with the requirements of a conscience’s norm,
pulling strings, affecting the impotent thrusting
of his wooden hips,
whilst sinister laughter erupts from betwixt my
once fellatio spouting lips…

eventually, i will come to grips.

****
'Fro