Harsh land they say, so we live and die until dark and beaten we
pray our way to heaven.
Bodies angelic flailing about with haunches round; tilted upward.
They don’t pray, these gilded principals. They are the extravagant; taken with themselves.
Wild thoughts we have and exhibitionists we call – darlin’ press
me hard, squeeze me blond; be the skin between the skins and
Scream for us heaven and hear our words. Are you capable or are you
touching haunch to haunch gleefully playing it out?
Where are you dream a dream; screaming balls? Withering corona, our
rambling prince. Die a little more, touch not me.
2011 Barry Comer