Intercourse...

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  • Friendship

    Intercourse...

    The fever in my loins grows,
    my labia strain to engulf these snippets from the tip
    of your rejuvenated rod
    You old whore, monger of words
    Reprobate seducer of the innocent...
    My sword I sheath untill you agree,
    this barter, would the book maker's deft hand feel
    Thom.

    You stir me with your words, like Hitler's craft
    You: an artful engineer of words... subtle like a flirting cat
    This monster's egg, who laid it?
    You see what others dont
    Nobody teaches a virgin how to raise her waist
    Where is innocence?
    Hold your sword and let your loins bleed out offsprings
    The world must hear us.
    Omini

    Now the verse awakes, gliding forth from her harmattan cocoon
    The rains of fertility have come
    Mating drums roar through the boundless green of my mind
    We must strive to drive on and write even as we jive
    For the verse in a hungry man, dies
    Thom

    Let the grass spread her legs for the rains
    Oh let the birds of my inspiration feast on my mind's green where life has built its store
    Let juice and cream pour from the loaded groin of our hearts,
    an let verses like nightsong of deep river flow from the estatic pens of our souls...
    at every jerk.
    I think we have come again
    Omini

    I see your sound, i hear your sight
    The flatulence of old, gone!
    The recrudescence of my exhaustion dead
    I feel the pulse of your mind's green
    Would it be waiting, when in the morning,
    i stir from this familiar slumber?
    Thom.

    Deep. Deep, even in slumber the finger of your mind searches
    through the bottom of immagination
    You, the "lion of Umor Otutu"
    You have navigated boundless depths of terror and found the dimond of imagery
    Your tomorrow has come! I saw it yesterday... Pregnant: the harvest of our deeds
    Omini

    I hear crackling sounds, like a soldiers boots on dry bones
    This meal of verse has my belly filled
    This dam must burst
    Aha, did you hear our new name?
    Great people, great nation
    The priestess lost her mind...
    Yes she came from the drug house.
    Thom.

    Our country: a mental case... a lion with the head of a goat
    ...reputation like the flavour of pit toilet
    Yeah, great nation with leaders: men strong and erect in the holes of other men
    In this Sodom, what selling point will the priestess flaunt
    ...as she paddles the boat with a wooden spoon?
    Ah, this grand voyage: a fart in the marketplace; the dance of the befuddled
    All drugs have side effects our dear queen!
    Omini

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    Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

    T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

    Bobtee’s Poems (2)

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