Monday, July 15, 2013

Serving man

Bookend sentinel,
lost in space

you come hither
but in peace
offering soylent green

blue faced, rose-colored
spectacles wearing white
polyester bell bottoms stretched 
over long greenly laced legs

of interwoven veined spirographs, 
supernovae radiantly out-of-control

to eat me alive.

So an aperitif first,
ultramarine liquid, blurring faculty, 
cleansing palate, warping 
space/time continuum

before pursed lips blow a naked kiss 
concussive enough 
obliterating skin-tight spacesuit to 
bare skin

And for the main entree,
nawa shibari

arms bound, legs tied, mouth 
gagged, whole body 
suspended in anime

floating zero gravity
no one can hear you scream 
for ecstasy deafens
swirling into time tunnels, 
completely harnessed

And still I succumb.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Of the birds and the bees

Gravy spills while the beans on the grill begin to burn.

"Surely you joust," retorted the not-so-famous thirteenth century Greek philosopher when pressed for his secret ingredients during the ad hoc bra mitzvah under the Manhattan Bridge.

Yet wearing a codpiece outside your pants is so medieval, all in attendance concur. So why did the plastic chicken cross the country road? Any average-sized thumb could answer that simple riddle.

The bartender nods and points at the helicopter below the belt, rotor blades out of synch coughing. But an uninvited Tracy Emin already beats him to the sucker punch, unequal parts banana and two ripe melons with a dash of bitters on their rocks.

Just say no, just say no, both implore in stereo as the mixed-up conversation suddenly melts, causing him to suddenly sweat.

Who can tell for sure whether the bastard is suffering from total yellow fever though his wife did text for emergency evacuation.

The octopus in the room decides right then to rise and head to the bathroom. Coming to grips with tentacles is often much sexier than any fetish.

LHOOQ goes the pun.