The Poet As A Pornographer
without the contours of the body
where shall the poet be?
without the feel of the palms
skimming through breasts and thighs
where can his poems be?
he cannot live on those clouds alone
he has no words that must dwell in air
his rhyme and rhythm are on their prime
on the hips and legs
that which lies between and not beyond
creates the meaning of his lines
the hair and nose and tender loins
the lips and tongue and cheeks
the poet takes some flowers and smell them
but with her something crawls in his head forever
do not judge him for he is happy and
he does not really care about what you say
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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