The Count

The count of words
Bear no matter
When the words don't count.
Weight is measured in action,
Sustenance included in the family.
Starvation is sometimes necessary
For mind and body to adjust
To this haphazard
Diary of life.
The gap allowed for reflection
In the Renaissance of man,
Be it a day, or a lifetime.
The pity of deities
Plays a great role
In the drama of human relationships,
Sinking by day upon conscious wizardy.
By night we are whole,
In dreams.

The void

Proletariat customs within the royal courtyard.
Basket-woven skies,
Man's unbetraying lies,
Her voluptuous thighs,
And the reason for modern businessamn's ties,
All breathing from the same artery
For the need of artillery,
Tilling the art?
Donkey fart!
It's all about profit
And credibility through inredulous means.
The Jacuzzi is boiling,
And we are waiting on the edges,
Trying to slowly dip out feet in,
Burnung from the steaming undergroung
Beneath our streets.
Arthritis struck minds of today
And claim it's unavoidable,
Shall we ask the void?

Wet Flower

Teaching a Woman
Of the seductive mechanisms of man
Upon the voluptuous vagina.
Guiding her lips to the tender
Wet flower of another woman,
Expressing necessary patterns
Of oral explorations.
Expanding the learning curve
Of an acquired taste of pussy.
Sharing visions of climbs of ecstatic
Heights between two flowers and their branch.
Ah, if nipples could glance at watery truths
In the eyes of Venus,
If bodies flowered like wine
Through the halls of dire desire
Lit by an unquenched sunset beyond
The bodies of buildings,
Along the railroad
Going nowhere fast,
Unrelinquished circles plowing through time,
Regaining the same volume in the same space,
So they taste and they think while they drink
The purity of my manhood.