October Poem 7: Manufacturing Consent

She looked at my TV to say, look at

All that sex. To bring me out of my work.

To peck the eyes pumping in a grotesque

Caricature. And I said, what sex? That

Isn’t even what sex looks like. To pull

My mind from the growing ashes off the

Burning end of my cigarette. The burn

And urge of my male being. The subtle

Give and take of mental combat. I reached

Out to brush the tops of my fingertips

Against her cheek. To take deliberate

Each step to sooth the sting behind my eyes

With her wet flesh. Like the blood drained from the

Exotic verities in poetry.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s