cubistpoet

I won't try to explain my romantic situation.

I'm going to see my ex-girlfriend tonight though, and damned if I'm not always still attracted to her when I see her. She has a very, very nice body.

Here's a poem:

Hello, my name is Justin and I'm a wordaholic.
I've been riding under a covered wagon for 22 years
bound for Oregon Trails of Tears
smearing red ink on "B" papers
in chemical climate controlled cell-blocks,
prisons of proscriptive pedagogic pathways,
mazes where there is no cheese
only volts of electricty at every turn.

But lately I've been getting a bit motion sick
from all these twists and turns
these battles with Indian rug burn
this diet of hunted moose and fern.

Fuck the plain-clad pligrims of progress
I'm taking twelve steps across each of their spines
to get that sweet, sweet fix I crave
that first, last, and always hit
from a big, bulging joint of... words.
Words wrapped in ten cent dictionary pages,
lit with the flames of a forgetful phoenix
remebering the secrets of rebirth for the first time.

Besides, I've heard that intelligent women like men
who can manipulate those multi-syllabics
so maybe I'll shrug off the stockade of celibacy like a rising proletariat
for a communist vixen dangling from my Latinate-laden libido-lifting Lexicon.

But should she respond with a charcoal grey blank slate face
to my boisterous, bubbling brook of babble
no sodium-soaked policeman-blue rivers
of tears will stream down my faces
signaling a siren of imploding soul decay.

My internal organs will go on to year in unison
for the supple strokable spine of that
black leather coated lady known as
the New Oxford Unabridged
and all those voluptuous words in her cavities.

Words that I want to fuck and suck,
beat and batter, rape and ravage,
lick and stick where they don't belong.

Words written in blood on tile walls about the most sick and twisted fantasies
of serial killers sleeping in stacks of bloody, soiled panties.

Words to dream by.
Words to die by.

But not just that,
Words to stand in line at the grocery store for.
Words to place in the grip of a newborn's fingertips.

I want to inhale them all,
sacred and profane,
and blow them back out in a billowing carcagenic cloud,
choking the first, fifth, and twenty-sixth rows.
I want to spread my addiction like some sort of secondhand semantics
that your plastic Gallagher earplugs won't deflect.

I want to make the world into wordaholics,
one unwary eardrum at a time.