"But there's no floor stains"
Criss crossed wounds rest on my thighs
"I put down towels"
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Concerto B Major: The Encore
This
Is
The Encore
The part of the performance you’ve begged for
Longed for the main even to be over
Just to get a taste of
This after affair
Sound check in reverse
No one asks the audience how the orchestra's supposed to sound
I just know you want me around
Just to remind you of...
All the timbre you've let slip away
Since the last time I graced the stage
You’ve forgotten the way your
Fingers pop
To unsung melodies
The way your spine curves
When the rhythm caresses that spot
To the left
Down a notch…
Right there…
Forgotten the way
Pianissimo tasted
Rolling of the tip of your tongue
In the opening
Of your favorite love song
But this is not your favorite love song
This is nothing special
Yet everything you’ve ever hoped for
Because you’ve never imagined the best music
Being that of which isn’t scripted
But we are here…
We are the musicians…
We are the lovers
We are the makers
The movers
The shakers
We let the music use us as
Its form of medium
To bring itself to life in front of you
And all we ask…
All we ask…
Is that you open yourself up
To be fully pleased
Let me make love to you in your daydreams…
Let me kiss your eyelashes individually
And leave you with fairytale coated seams on the lining of your memories
Simply from the tempo
Of my congas
On the downbeat
Let that trombone slide all up in your
Gut…
Lower rib section rearrangement
While the bow for my fiddle
Tickles you into the very position
You never thought you’d ever compromise your orgasm to be found in…
This is what I do…
With the flick of my wrist and a baton
This is what you love
Imagine if I used simply my hands and my tongue
This is what you’ve paid all of your attention to me for
The very moment
After the goose bumps rise
Right when the hair begins to prickle against your own flesh
Down to the second when you find yourself
Fantasizing what it’d be like if I conducted this
Right
In between
Your thighs…
And so I play on…
Until yet again…
You’ve had your fill
And I have satisfied your craving
For
An encore.
Is
The Encore
The part of the performance you’ve begged for
Longed for the main even to be over
Just to get a taste of
This after affair
Sound check in reverse
No one asks the audience how the orchestra's supposed to sound
I just know you want me around
Just to remind you of...
All the timbre you've let slip away
Since the last time I graced the stage
You’ve forgotten the way your
Fingers pop
To unsung melodies
The way your spine curves
When the rhythm caresses that spot
To the left
Down a notch…
Right there…
Forgotten the way
Pianissimo tasted
Rolling of the tip of your tongue
In the opening
Of your favorite love song
But this is not your favorite love song
This is nothing special
Yet everything you’ve ever hoped for
Because you’ve never imagined the best music
Being that of which isn’t scripted
But we are here…
We are the musicians…
We are the lovers
We are the makers
The movers
The shakers
We let the music use us as
Its form of medium
To bring itself to life in front of you
And all we ask…
All we ask…
Is that you open yourself up
To be fully pleased
Let me make love to you in your daydreams…
Let me kiss your eyelashes individually
And leave you with fairytale coated seams on the lining of your memories
Simply from the tempo
Of my congas
On the downbeat
Let that trombone slide all up in your
Gut…
Lower rib section rearrangement
While the bow for my fiddle
Tickles you into the very position
You never thought you’d ever compromise your orgasm to be found in…
This is what I do…
With the flick of my wrist and a baton
This is what you love
Imagine if I used simply my hands and my tongue
This is what you’ve paid all of your attention to me for
The very moment
After the goose bumps rise
Right when the hair begins to prickle against your own flesh
Down to the second when you find yourself
Fantasizing what it’d be like if I conducted this
Right
In between
Your thighs…
And so I play on…
Until yet again…
You’ve had your fill
And I have satisfied your craving
For
An encore.
The Symphony: Concerto in B Major
Pretty...
Nah that's not you by far...
You're too...
Intelligent to be pretty...
So I like to call you pulchritudinous to your face
You understand it's far from an insult...
The conductor
To the orchestral strings
In my symphony of
Hum-de-la hums
Of symbolic symbols of...
Esoteric...
Connotations of...
Sultry pieces of scrap metal
From some third world country in your mind...
Legato murmurs
I take you back to your future...
You're simply here in the present visit a state of being
For I am...
Worth it...
I am...
Worth...
Not quite you...
But the model two year's before your type
Upgrade with a subscription
To...
"Damn...you're fine as...."
Pure
Sugar
Cane...
In the fields
Of the Virgin Islands
Equipped with everything but a virgin mind
You're anything but a virgin
To the light of the earth
Rolled between damp fingertips
Searching for a glimpse of a vagrant mind...
Lenses to my soul...
Pupils dilated...
Stop smoking me...
I tend to have that effect...
Chances are....
There's something about you
That I'm supposed to find...
Something of normalcy
But there is nothing normal about you
Nothing normal about this...
Descendant of Oshun
You must be prolific
Poignant ebony majesty
More flavor than sodium chloride concentrated
And...
Love
You must be love
On two legs
And shoulders to carry the weight of the normal things
That pour out from the depths of your mind
Mere mortals unworthy
Pretentious...
Something like that...
Most of the time
And the rest
Is the silent fire
Burning the earth between your thumb and forefinger
Repeat strings here...
Crescendo the decrescendo
Impossible?
Just as much as being a prostitute and pimp
Which is how it always is...
But let me play for you
And tell you how...
The grandeur that is your silence
Is equivalent to all of the words
In this piece...
Let me
Live...
Love
Learn...
To be in your aura...
With the prospects of my greatness rise..
Speak fluently in the dialect of you
In a mind of my own
In the future tense
As the present tense
Expands my cipher
And the pizzicato
Carries out my symphony until we reach
The fermata
Where the life of every syllable's existence
Is held in the tips of our pens
Until...
FINE.
Nah that's not you by far...
You're too...
Intelligent to be pretty...
So I like to call you pulchritudinous to your face
You understand it's far from an insult...
The conductor
To the orchestral strings
In my symphony of
Hum-de-la hums
Of symbolic symbols of...
Esoteric...
Connotations of...
Sultry pieces of scrap metal
From some third world country in your mind...
Legato murmurs
I take you back to your future...
You're simply here in the present visit a state of being
For I am...
Worth it...
I am...
Worth...
Not quite you...
But the model two year's before your type
Upgrade with a subscription
To...
"Damn...you're fine as...."
Pure
Sugar
Cane...
In the fields
Of the Virgin Islands
Equipped with everything but a virgin mind
You're anything but a virgin
To the light of the earth
Rolled between damp fingertips
Searching for a glimpse of a vagrant mind...
Lenses to my soul...
Pupils dilated...
Stop smoking me...
I tend to have that effect...
Chances are....
There's something about you
That I'm supposed to find...
Something of normalcy
But there is nothing normal about you
Nothing normal about this...
Descendant of Oshun
You must be prolific
Poignant ebony majesty
More flavor than sodium chloride concentrated
And...
Love
You must be love
On two legs
And shoulders to carry the weight of the normal things
That pour out from the depths of your mind
Mere mortals unworthy
Pretentious...
Something like that...
Most of the time
And the rest
Is the silent fire
Burning the earth between your thumb and forefinger
Repeat strings here...
Crescendo the decrescendo
Impossible?
Just as much as being a prostitute and pimp
Which is how it always is...
But let me play for you
And tell you how...
The grandeur that is your silence
Is equivalent to all of the words
In this piece...
Let me
Live...
Love
Learn...
To be in your aura...
With the prospects of my greatness rise..
Speak fluently in the dialect of you
In a mind of my own
In the future tense
As the present tense
Expands my cipher
And the pizzicato
Carries out my symphony until we reach
The fermata
Where the life of every syllable's existence
Is held in the tips of our pens
Until...
FINE.
Past Famous
Wrote the first poem you'd ever been given...
Helped you experience the best orgasm you'd ever ridden
I don't need to be on your
Guest list
Just remember my name
And how to spell it
I'll be here
When you come down to size
Long enough to add me to the story you tell the next
soul about your past
And once again
You'll be glad I came
And I'll be glad you asked.
Helped you experience the best orgasm you'd ever ridden
I don't need to be on your
Guest list
Just remember my name
And how to spell it
I'll be here
When you come down to size
Long enough to add me to the story you tell the next
soul about your past
And once again
You'll be glad I came
And I'll be glad you asked.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)