I can’t fantasize if you hide
your waist behind loose shirts
that deform your silhouette
and incapacitates
me to draw the shape
of your breast; and if
you’re cold-blooded enough
not to jump in fright
over sudden loud noises
or hasty movements,
I won’t hear your broken inhale
that’d fit perfectly
with your skin’s off-beat tremble
and your toes
while closing in.

You could have the stare of a morning kiss,
the freckled pale shoulders of the near East,
the slim neck of a vampire’s prey,
the wavy hair of the sunset’s seashore,
the cozy belly to a rainy day
and lips to kiss
and softly bite
But as long as you keep placing yourself
as a disposable figurant
over the crowded Lisbon downtown,
you’ll be nothing more to me
than a brief glance that’ll drive
by my short-term memory and die.

You could have become
something wonderful to
at least
masturbate to, if you
weren’t merely a clone
of the weekly fashioned,
politically correct,
puritan but whorribly dressed,
social network obsessed,
oversexed youth you
so wholeheartedly embrace
with façade adulthood.
Even your footprints
reek of one night stand
and your soles are still stained from the vomit
you must’ve treaded on last Friday.

While Dr. Jekyll rants,
Mr. Hyde fits in all the hypes
and catches all the trends.
Last edited by seventh_angel at Oct 7, 2012,