Mouth to Mouth to Mine

Part of a piece I may be, but at peace apart I am, regardless of wonts, vain reaches, conjured lust, l—, scenario. Yes: to extent, of cause — but likely I shan't drown self silly for lack of finger, and where it could disappear, nor shall I feel unfull for having lacked thus, and relatives. My mindset on things won't trouble! Oh yes: place thus here, that there — perfect — and end's well, but what does that ensure? Productability, me thinks. Warranty ain't guarantee.

That does not mean there's not a neck I've slunk my hands round, rung, flushed into black mudded river, washed off palms, for reasons beneath me (hello, darling!) and matters out of mine. In fact, it does not mean anything. Glass onions, apparently. Still, with each passing, I'm quite certain I'm gaining attention from clique — less to spread around, you see. Why? I ask. To answer (to whit): for the excitement, sheer guilty, stupid terror — you feel it! You see it and utter Wows — I know — and for the sake of having more talk on matters, as it seems to.
Means nothing, tho..

Dish it out, dish dish — I can take! Beneath the bedding, I'll stick my head in — then you shall experience it once, even if it is inversely.

Four Walls Deep

Four fairly ordinary days in and I was starting to feel overly cautious — at least in regards to where foot meets "it". Five, and I was more or less branded (deed alive) by my auctions, as if I spoke them louder than these things. By the sixth, I was ready to pack the tent and return to Civil, the wife, something (or one) I did on the seventh. But re-integrating was not going to be as easy as that, especially since I was perhaps not as keen on re-integration as I should have been (but no personality or looks — what can you do?). Thus I was rutted therein, with neither the cash nor the will to lift my spirits.

As usual, I turned to the streets. A bottled dame, in particular. Her most arresting features were bruises. Still, she at least had the three points of interest, and I thought it only fair to put what would most likely be the only scrap of food on her table that wasn't fished from a rubbish bin, even if the reciprocation provided only temporary relief. Altruism is my vice, I suppose. And so, with skin disposed and knotted, and sin unwitnessed, I returned, half-satisfied, to the picket fences, wherein I smiled (with internal disdain) at the lawners and ghastly children, even occasionally stooping to a wave, and slipped peacefully into my abode.

Civil had her apron on, as per, and a tray lay across her mitted palms. I plucked a misshapen biscuit and promptly reduced it to wet crumbs in my mouth — someone seems to have accidentally mistaken baking soda for flour. The dear girl.

For Ben's Collection

I am reminded of Oscar Wilde's famous de-closeting quip: "I have nothing to declare but my genus; that is to say, Homo."*

*Originally published by AGF, 2006 — to little applaud!