The Difference Between a Poet and a Pervert is a Few Words.


“My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.”-William Blake

Cecile opened her larynx
A voice crooned like a timid violin.

I explored the ambiance of vowels
Trusting a few letters would coincide
Assembling a sentence to attribute
Some familiarity.

But the sky was overcasted-
A lens with cataracts.

Whatever Heaven blinded us from
Cecile characterized
With a preference towards clouds
Shaped like oblong cocks.

“Curiosity killed the cat!” I chimed.
“Yes, but this pussy isn’t free,” she retorted.
Gesturing with a finger point
In the direction of her crotch.

I studied an indentation her leggings portrayed-
Spandex folded inside lips
That left me aflutter,
Drooling. (meat will do that to a mutt)

It wasn’t the fabric that enticed the mind
Rather the potential behind censorship.

A voyeur’s favorite bush.
Or sexual harassment. (gross)

Or it was Cecile’s perky voice
Labeling me a pervert,
Right before
A scene stealing kiss.

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