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Thursday, May 31, 2018

what male-hormonal doesn’t get 5/31/18


and so she revealed,
I have the bones of a stradivarius
I am the reproductive system of a cello
I am the genius of harp
behind all of sexual experience
I am the godsend to mend your mind
I am the drum of hip-to-hip bone conduction
I am the song that is ever simmering 
when skin-to-skin surrounds me, 
sin is only a cloud of unsettled dust in the distance
evocative is ever calling you out
all of your surrender is only honesty asserted
as long as you think you are having sex
you are only singular flights in an endless sky,
a mispronounced verb in your self-reflecting story,
a pin-hole of an ego-viewpoint 
be the take of your self parts 
and demystify them 
be the paint, the brush, the touch
until they exhaust you
then spirit from those consummate ashes
can become the invisible flame
then, be no more the matter of course
be instilled, imbibed, and ignited,
these are three faces of isles
where we meet to kiss-up the sacred
that there, made up of primal
is only the quantum of oneness
dressing down,
to give male-experience a preview . . . 




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