Freak Comes Clean

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Just beneath the mask, the drag, the skin we're in, I believe lives, in each of us, a certain degree of freakdom. I am boldly admitting to my own in the lines of this poem. lmr

 


Shhhh... Let me tell you a secret:

When I first saw you, I wanted you
Physically, spiritually, emotionally, too.
I wanted to kiss you so badly…
I kept stuffing that urge inside
A cool, moist place,
Hoping my hunger wouldn't show so much.
I wanted to do you…  yet even more,
I wanted to hold your wholeness.

And now I want to make an Art of you, to let my fingers
Crave Love upon your body, like warm, wet Plaster of Paris.
Imagine it: me, with my chisel, hard as diamond,
Hammering into your hot marble flesh….  in an effort
To mold and erect this brand new shape to your heart.

And you, you would be my art's food, my chisel's muse…
As I carve and drill and erect this space inside you,
Where your caged freak soul flies free.

Shhhhh... Let me tell you a secret:

I'm one of those romantic fools, those Sensitives who sometimes
Holds tenderness too close to the heart and the bone. Am I
Alone to sometimes think of sex as
Art?


Does this make me, a freak, or simply an Art Groupie?


Some tend to see Love as
A Science, a question of Chemistry;
A continuous series of complex equations.
E=Mc2.
See? You've lost me. I always sucked at the science of scientifics,
And excelled instead at
Fitful poetry. I could never recite
The Table of Elements, but creatively, I might be your 
Idiot savant.

Let me tell you another secret:



Sometimes, some nights I forget to be so tender. I sometimes
Want to grind your mind in time with mine;
To grind you finer than you mill your coffee.
See you with your flavor, and my vintage beans…
I imagine what a brouhaha
We could be together!


And… oh, my kisses might begin so slowly, so butterfly softly,
And then the intensity of them increases…
And that butterfly becomes
A freakish raven.


That kiss alone might cause tongues to chafe like flint and
Kindling igniting flames of desire…wild hot fiery flames that
Smolder, smother and consume us both to ashes of moist lust.

Shhhh.... Let me tell you my final secret:

Love makes me artful, thoughtful,
Sensitive and tender,
Angel and devil,
Madman and savage.
See, Love and me… we've this running history with
Schizophrenia, baby.


See… I'm not a angel.

I'm not a devil.

I'm not a ho.

I'm a freak, yo.

That's my secret.

I just told you.

So, now you know.


 

copyright © 2016 by L.M. Ross

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