One two three soft aah One two three aah aah aah Soft aah soft aah soft soft soft one aah two aah. Aah aah aah. soft and turn. Press and aah. Press press press against my chest. Soft soft into my brain. Do it again. Oh please again and again.
Is death a contagious disease, passed on from one mutt to another? Or is the writing of poems about it, the infection? Look, O my God he’s broken out in death. Don’t go near him. Wear a mask. Protect yourself or else you too will start writing about it, and there’s no known cure. Not even an aspirin will take away the malady. It’s not death that parts us, it’s writing about it, which is sweet sorrow.
In reply to your interesting inquiry I’m sorry but happy. Sorry because I can’t help you, happy because you reminded me of the time, my mother sent me to the ballroom dancing school in Human Street, (I wish I could remember the teacher’s name) She taught me the foxtrot and the Waltz and tried to teach me the Tango. I enjoyed learning all. The tango titillated me, literally. You know the part where palms clasp together and faces cheek to cheek point sideways, in the direction of the outstretched arms, forcing breast to breast. She was modestly clothed in a dark wollen dress, but she might have been a raving naked temptress, for all I knew, because I was then a virile chap of twelve, her soft, curvy chest, pressed into mine drove me to delicious delirium, I tingled all over with sexual desire. What was it? All I know is that the pleasure aroused in me then, still excites m...
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