What I Do Instead

I wanted to write a letter
the page and pen have received no use from me
lately.
and my hand misses the elements.
the lined beauty
the runny ink
if it were raining there may be
smudges
but I am indoors
even if the sky were to weep the
ink will receive no washing
no arduous disintegration.
Rather, I smooth my nose over
the fresh ink
and wait for the soup to finish its
boil.
spoonfuls of warmth
broth of oceans
entering into the throat like typhoons
dessert far off bay
Everyone was expecting the rapture
I was confident in my fashion of sin to avoid suction
into the heavenly plains.
We all sat in the cusp of doom, fearing change
but I taste the salty broth
on the day after the prophesied doomsday
on the day all the righteous hoped to evanesce with God.
the promise of flames loomed over the sheep.
Then there were the ones that could not be bothered by the subject.
I wanted to write a letter.
I’ve been avoiding the whiskey taste
kisses are too sour in that state
and the brain swims in an uncheckable set of laws
But my self sovereignty
(another factor in my surviving the rapture)
kicks in like a purring motor.
One time, on the passengers seat, i saw a billboard that read:
People who are free are slaves of Satan.
A christian advertisement of fear.
baby, who is free these days?
we all serve the devil from time to time.
I found of the rapture in a similar venture
on my way to destroy my temple with some liquor to soothe
some one’s nerves (not mine).
The billboard of importance read: he is coming may 20th.
a white Jesus with a congenial smile and open arms.
O EBONY PROPHET,
what they have done to your mane of lamb’s hair is sinful.
I have no photographs
only descriptions in poetic lines
heavy blood soaked verses,
a collection of holy poetry
that hypnotized millions
and beheaded as many.
the glorious Pan left
pagans unfolding in the streets
diamond backed to the sun, to make love.
the only loss in this
spherical sticky mess.
I think I wanted to write a letter.
Who will be the recipient, i must scrutinize, under sharp jabs and tear tear tear
those damn tears.
who of the people I imagine pouring over my words shall i sent this to.
Not too many lovers deserve my letters
I am in love with your shining eyes
sometimes
and i revel in your touch
when you hold me by
waist and hips and thighs just
right.
nibble on my backside at your
leisure
moist lips and many cigarettes burned.
heaven couldn’t perform your suction.
Another factor to my continued existence, I presume.
How can the temptation be resisted?
in sleepless stupor
in exhaustion and fumbling
our caresses became naked
our bodies easily as well.
we burn from head to toe.
who would read a letter such as this.
or a poem
if meter and rhyme judicially forgave my disregard

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