Waits

A sleepless night led me to new answers
New ways to try and set my life straight

M. texted S. with an offer of weed, fine kush
Of the stickiest sort, all he ever gets nowadays
It’s been a while, longer than usual, a week
More than usual, three weeks perhaps
Instead of two, another chapter in the saga
Fifteen years in all, over oceans and deserts
And emotional turmoils of so much variety
Sometimes decadently sexual while other times
Overtly pedestrian, bad television and big
Ole bong hits, no, absolutely never from a water pipe
Joints and blunts exclusively, like religion
But when a man shares his weed
You don’t worry him about how

But we started with wife sharing
Before S. was my wife, before M. grew entangled
With an infidelitous addicted prude
Ain’t that always the way
Threesomes and foursomes and fivesomes
I’ve lived a decadent life
Reduced over decades to twosomes
And threesomes and nonesomes
As circumstance and desires waxed
And waned until the occasions
Became entirely unpredictable
And much less often, so who knows
Where this transaction will lead
Begin with a bathrobe and a hard cock

“Can I help you with that?”
Lust lets loose, dissolving reason
Excitement consumes sensibilities
Like a late Latin night with a note
Hanging sustained in desperately
Held hope, furies, desires, holding tight
Taking and giving and taking and giving
Give it, take it, let loose the hot lust
In a sweaty release, a grunt, a squeal
A moment of pause and reality resumes
But it is more likely they’re talking
Surrendered to circumstance or emotions
Turning energy to telling life’s evolving tale
Of her and him and who knows who

But there’s also a chance
That life spares no time
No wham, no bam, just thank you both
All this and a bag of weed
Sweet maryjane
Coming always straight from mother earth
And the dirt and the muck and the sunshine
Green Goddess of release
From the twisted grip of anxiety
The friction of an overactive mind
One toke over the line
And another and another
Play the game, laugh and sing

All our dreams will come true
If we believe they have

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
This entry was posted in fiction, literature, personal, poetry, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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