The session before lunch makes the faithful voracious.
You approach the stage. Without twist your aura is sensed.
The delicate chair embraces your heft.
Rock hard thighs are spread wide, enticing.
Cluttered dark hair shrouds heart-breaking eyes, and
exotic vape clouds escape full lips, slowly.
Cold beer dribbles down that unshaven square jaw as you assert
“Offend who the fuck you like. Life is short. Write what you like. That’s art!”
Not caring makes an alluring sticky-date bard.
The court is beguiled. The other
panellists’ tongues have been
lacerated.
Featured photo by cottonbro studio.
