the worse life gets
the more beautiful
the poetry
(what kind
of wicked parasite
is this to
turn my
pain into
your pleasure?)

be that as it may,
would that lust were my only sin
would that it had all
of my dedication, total
Zen-monk focus

then we could talk about your kimono
is subtle, surreptitious
removal my
elephant in the room

but no street preacher
when you need one so
the smooth feel of
skin must
be left to, must
totally become
product of my imagination

street preacher, street walker,
one of you must absolve me,
convert me
endorse me

leave me with lust, best in
the form, the shape
of special desire

on the floor

there is
fill, that
can be filled

places to kiss