The Cell

       
it was my fault i suppose      
inquisitive fuck that i am..      
recklessly engaging in these      
late night roamings..      
through the catacombs        
of your literature..      
       
lost in the labyrinth of your words..      
       
so what else can a man do      
but lick the walls of your poetry      
to divine the deeper meaning behind      
your scripture..      
       
am i being too forward?      
       
well whatever..      
you mind fucked me        
[vaingloriously i might add]      
and didn't even have the courtesy        
to apologize..      
you were shameless in the renderings      
of your soul..      
so therefore..i am blameless in what      
i say in regards to you      
what's even more fucked up is..      
i can't even name this thing      
between you and i..      
       
cuz you're over there      
in west bubblefuck        
and i'm somewhere in Brooklyn..      
creeping in your blind spot.    
nonexistent. .      
       
imagination is power right?      
       
so with that in mind      
i can freely acknowledge      
that i know your poems ain't got      
shit to do with me      
but it was you who decided to post online      
and allow me a taste of your spices      
while unknowingly exploiting      
my unspoken vices      
i know it wasn't your intent      
you just wanted to vent         
your nocturnal throbbings      
for some dude i could give      
two fucks about..      
       
but still...      
you ensnared me all the same..      
nahhh..no need to name names..      
cuz to me      
poetry is secretly a game of        
spin the bottle..      
you got my mood swing        
on full throttle woman      
yes you do..      
       
and it's all my fault      
cuz in the end      
i didn't have to open your vault        
and spread wide        
the thighs of your        
verbs and adjectives        
and submerge my thickened thoughts        
into your inkwell      
       
well..here i am      
damned to these reoccurring      
mental orgasms      
inducing my pen into sporadic spasms      
spilling ink in such a juvenile fashion      
hoping my passion will find its way      
into your inner chasm..      
leaving chalked outlines of my essence      
as you inhale the evanescence of      
your mystery man      
...      
       
no...      
       
there's no history between you and i      
and there's no need to say hi or bye      
nor do we ever have to meet..      
cuz at the end of the day        
it's poetry..      
and i'm perceptive and honest enough      
to keep everything      
in its proper perspective..      
     
..