The World Literature Blog

Glopowrimo #17 (mixing up two prompts from yesterday and today.)

I could say they reminded him of his mother

I could say they made him reach out for a cigarette

I could say they made his mouth develop a nervous tic

I could say they made his hands agitated

They wired his brain and unwired his mind

They made him lick his attractive lips

They made him lick his meaty chops

They made him run his tongue over his lips

They made him go mad

Did it want him like that?

Did it want him vulnerable, and dangerous?

Did it want him down on his knees, begging me please?

Did it want him to take them in his hands?

Did it long for his mouth and his lips and his tongue?

Did everything hang around this centre of bliss?

Did it or didn't it, Freud be hanged!?

It wanted a head to rest on it

It wanted a hand to be gentle to it

It wanted hands, later, to be harsh to it

It wanted whispers to run tremors through it

It wanted attention, it screamed for it

It wanted to be freed, to be seen, to be appreciated

It wanted to be taken or left to be. Just as it is.

It wanted more than the whole world could give

It was the tip of his unexplored planets

He was the waiter and he wanted his tips

It was an obsession, lack of control, possession

Was it only lust or more than it?

It wanted to be wet, to blow hot, and hot-cold

It was a poem with no end to it

"Oh, do not ask what is it."

If it lets you, come, go, make your visit.