tigerpig

a girl worte a poem about my ass. a stranger from the far corners of LJ.

she wrote this:

Subject: an ode to sara's arse

1. the Arse, smooth like a ping-pong ball; it passes through the firewall
and seems to soar out of the void; a soft and silken ellipsoid.

then fairy lights enkindle it, like gossamer by candle lit, until it
glows beyond the knees as mellow as a cheddar cheese

and down and down i watch it press into the feather bed's caress, a realm
of skin without a stain; a corpse, i come to life again.

the Arse's aura drowns a star that seeks it's royal way to bar; it seems
with conscious power to glow and sweeter, purer, gladder grow.

lying serene above the thigh, until exultantly on high, it shimmers neon
in the night; the golden arches of delight.

2. i have a message now to pass,

a nightly commune with the Arse; upon it's grace i stare and stare and
come to understanding there.

as quiet as a mouse i sit and tell my tale of days to it; the dissolution
that i've spun into a wheel of pain and fun.

and the Arse listens pensively as gentle as a lamb to me, until i think
there's just us two; a fleshly world of me and you.

in all of cyber space it's i who stares awestruck into the light; of
billion beings i alone who praise the Arse in dulcet tone.

and seal a bond between us two, stronger than even strongest glue, but
knowledge comes with break of day - the Arse is miles and miles away...

3. to know the Arse as few men may, one must be just a little gay; and
for the millionth time i'm glad that i am just a little mad.

i envy all the bright young things; the midnight folk with fur and wings
that hold the Arse within their eyes and hope to be it's sacrifice.

o, they will watch the regal Arse dance in the street and down the path;
but with the Queen Arse i will keep my tryst when all the world's asleep.

as i have kept by world wide web that tryst when all the world's in bed;
in saturnalian suspense, beyond the world of common sense.

until one day the Arse alone will rule upon a golden throne; i wonder
will it want me then, it's lover, more than worlds of men?

or will my drunken ghost be there, in corners dim to sit and stare, on
silent nights without a stir - the Arse's lonely worshipper?