Ink Poured In Ear Canals
If the poet were to speak of truth
The poem, the aspect greater than the means
Would cherish that of silence
And inks galore would simply adore
What pleasures would deride within
And strive to find the spark of triumph
To rise above that guilt that lies
Between the legs lubricated in black
To smear the words into the ears
Of future figures with no names
They crave the pleasure, crave the game
The calligraphic species, literary, predatory
They hunt for sport, they hunt for more
The verse they’ve all been hungry for
To salivate in between the lines
To spill the fantasy from inside
Ejaculiterature films the minds
The pages stick against blackened spit
Through eardrums swim the shameful waves
Evaporating as electric thoughts
Whispers freebased, melted sound
Listen more closely when no ones around
Stories fragmented in a moment’s tone
Stroked in Shakespearian rhythm to some
Whilst words, do not me they make come?
Oh, the centerfold of pages old
Experienced in classic manner
With ancient notes and phrases cold
Still resonate with corroded passion
Don’t forget to touch your tongue
To lick the scars of the ceiling above
It circulates inside the bloodstream
The wonders of black tar poetry
Feel it eating through your veins
Remember how you’ve felt this way before
The same phrases race through your mind
The voices, faces, same every time
Cringe at the screenplay, embrace the sighs
Take your time, the words are wide
The theatre’s gorgeous in the midst of night
Most seats still vacant, the shadows still
The darkest corner, embrace the skies
The dimmest light, the faintest rhymes
That no one cares to look behind
With audiences locked, deep in the plot
Behind the curtains, the pearls of thought
And take back what you always loved
The silver caress, those stolen vows
Too tainted for the eyes ahead
Too taken and too sick instead
But don’t forget the velvet red
The stains of ages, remember, they’re dead.
The poem, the aspect greater than the means
Would cherish that of silence
And inks galore would simply adore
What pleasures would deride within
And strive to find the spark of triumph
To rise above that guilt that lies
Between the legs lubricated in black
To smear the words into the ears
Of future figures with no names
They crave the pleasure, crave the game
The calligraphic species, literary, predatory
They hunt for sport, they hunt for more
The verse they’ve all been hungry for
To salivate in between the lines
To spill the fantasy from inside
Ejaculiterature films the minds
The pages stick against blackened spit
Through eardrums swim the shameful waves
Evaporating as electric thoughts
Whispers freebased, melted sound
Listen more closely when no ones around
Stories fragmented in a moment’s tone
Stroked in Shakespearian rhythm to some
Whilst words, do not me they make come?
Oh, the centerfold of pages old
Experienced in classic manner
With ancient notes and phrases cold
Still resonate with corroded passion
Don’t forget to touch your tongue
To lick the scars of the ceiling above
It circulates inside the bloodstream
The wonders of black tar poetry
Feel it eating through your veins
Remember how you’ve felt this way before
The same phrases race through your mind
The voices, faces, same every time
Cringe at the screenplay, embrace the sighs
Take your time, the words are wide
The theatre’s gorgeous in the midst of night
Most seats still vacant, the shadows still
The darkest corner, embrace the skies
The dimmest light, the faintest rhymes
That no one cares to look behind
With audiences locked, deep in the plot
Behind the curtains, the pearls of thought
And take back what you always loved
The silver caress, those stolen vows
Too tainted for the eyes ahead
Too taken and too sick instead
But don’t forget the velvet red
The stains of ages, remember, they’re dead.