The Wanting

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    The Wanting

    I want~

    to lick the butter

    from your hands

                           and

        drink the wine

    that

    trickles from your lips

                                and sip

           your delicate elixir          

     

                                                          I want to touch

                                                               your mouth

     

                                                         or do you doubt

                                                         my intent

     

                                                                      or are you

     

                                                                      just spent

                                                                 on definition . . ?

     

                                                                             Can I mix

                                                                             my soul with yours

     

                                                                             and taste the kiss

                                                                             upon your tongue

     

                                                                             and feel you in my skin

                                                                             like sweat in my pores

     

                                                                             I breathe . . .

                                                                             I breathe you in

     

                                                                                               like the air

                                                                              you take for granted

     

                                                              Y e t  .  .  !

     

                                                              I  feel

                                                              You’re choking me

     

                                                                            and know

                                                               I can not breathe

     

                                                               you know

                                                               I can not be

     

                                                               B l i n d e d  .   .   !

    into ~

    not seeing myself

                   anymore

                                                                but for

                                                                the reflection

     

                                                                        on the floor

                                                                of drizzled tears

                                                                                                             Instincts . .

     

                                                                                                             mask

                                                                                                             the mask you wear

                                                               deception dance

                                                               along your sleeve

     

                                                                in single file

                                                                in order of the lie

                                                                                                           and

                                                                             that drop of saltiness

     

                                                                             that wanders

                                                                             down your cheek

     

                                                                                       is not a tear

                                                                                     that I believe

     

                                                              yet . .

     

                                                              in my stupor

                                                              in my daze

     

                                                              I’m still clear enough

                                                                      to make my way

     

                                                                                     through

                                                          your complicated maze

     

                                                    you masturbate my senses . !

    Still . . 

     

    I want to kiss

     

    your lipstick

    painted purple lips

     

                                                          I  want to caress

                                                         your full and swollen hips

     

                                                         that calls me slave

                                                         that calls my name

     

                                                         o u t   l o u d  . . !

     

                                                                                             and

     

                                                                                  is familiar

                                                                               to my touch

     

                                                                                         I raised my head

                                                                                             that’s perched

     

                                                                               between

     

                                                                                          my tired hands

     

                                                                                                and peered

                                                                         between my matted hair

     

                                                             L o c k s  .  .  !

     

                                                             that fall like rain

     

                                                                              against

                                                                my wetted face

     

                                                              S t a i n e d   .   .   !

    I gaze

    into a darkened daze

     

                your nakedness

     

    against

    the early dusk of fall

                                                              like a virgin

     

                                                              that takes a lover

                                                              for the first time

     

                                                                            you call  .  . !

     

                                                               b u t ~

     

                                                               I refuse to hear

     

                                                                            and dare

     

                                                                             my body

     

     

                                                            N o t   t o   L i s t e n

     

     

    © mingoáo - 明 - The Writings of Mingoáo Inc. is the exclusive agent, publisher-distributor of the Writings, Designs and Ideas of Mingoáo. No part nor whole of the Work exhibited herein may be copied, transcribed, reproduced, performed, nor, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, not by carrier pigeon, pony express, smoke signal, slingshot, sled dog, not even by alien spacecraft, nor stored by any information storage and/or retrieval system, past, present or future, nor translated, without the expressed written consent of the Owner. ~ By displaying, exhibiting, publishing or presenting this work Privately or Publicly, the Owner in no way perceived or believed , relinquishes his rights to the work partially or entirely -  Not to be Copied, Altered, Forwarded, Distributed, Shared, Nor Transferred. There’s no warranty; not even for Merchantability or Fitness For a,  and, or any Particular Purpose.

     

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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