Poems for the juglar

Not on my diet
There is a deep
down
itch
with
your name on it
it can’t abide
quietly
unnoticed
it must make itself known
it
is
hopeless
wasteful
nagging
blaring
and threatening
to make me
make a fool
out of myself.
Indulgences
There is no reason
For us
To be.
Each grasp
A fissure
Each revelation
A blow
Each time
We
Fall
Deeper
Into
The pit.
We
Are survivors
Of the fall
Of the tower
Of Babel
Imploring
With eyes
What
Words
Can not say.
Rider Redux
Used to be your voice could turn knees to jelly
Used to be that your eyes could speak tongues
Used to be that your crooning could make biblical waves
Parting the seas
Used to be…
CC Rider look what you done done…
Corolla
Like a melon
It gapes
Violated
Ripped
Oozing
And angry.
It is the siren
Wrecker of ships
Narrow and wide
It is the gift
It is the giver
It is the mother
it is the vessel
It is the beginning
It is the end.

Stamen
Standing with amazing hubris
Form touting the convex
Velvet and baroque
It struts
Like a rock star
demanding satisfaction
cowers like a dog disciplined
screams to be adored
and wishes no less
than to rest in eternal repose
nurtured and protected
in dark succulent recesses
of its complement.

Corona
Sensation
Ever concentric and violent
Draws the life breath
Time stops
And what remains
Is the aftertaste
I climb unfulfilled
Up a never ending staircase
To the death of a dream
I climb and seek delicious
Oblivion.
Entrée
With skin
As golden brown
Spicy
And
Succulent
As a young capon
Like the colonel’s own
You are the original recipe
Ad we you know the saying,
Finger lickin’ good
Come to my table
And let me dine
Bruised fruit
It looked so good
I was salivating
On the way
to
that
One
perfect
piece
and then my heart
fell through your hands
strong hands
quick hands
careless hands
cruel hands
on its way
back to earth
a casualty
of your
youth
and my
need.
I fell for you
like the last
ripe
pear
falls
irretrievably
to
the
ground.



Playing the numbers
26
too young
33
too sullen
42
too hungry
48
too far gone
50
too settled
too often
too tired
too bad.
Read me my rights
Loving you is like playing with fire
I crave the warmth, but I don’t want to feel the burn.
My arms ache to hold you and be held in turn
But how high would the price be ?
Would you take my passion and hurt me with it
Like the Mirandas would you hold it against me
At a time when passion and desire are no longer enough
To hold back the contempt, when my body is not trim
And firm and hard enough to defend itself against the heart blows
That you inflict on me will you throw me into the street
And seek yet another who is not as demanding and greedy
For something it can no longer command as quid pro quo
But can only hope to receive out of grace without retribution?
Touch me, love me, keep me, hold me. I promise I won’t take too much.

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