Covered in Paint

You choke the shaft of the brush,

wet the tip with what looks like spit

and begin to stroke.

I blush and hush my screams,

from seeing the streaking paint cream,

leaking onto your fists.

Yet you maintain a firm grip and

giggle at how I’m stoked

from your every brushstroke.

You’re talented, creative and reckless

when you allow the paint to spray onto your canvas.

You finger paint with the clumped up droplets and

smile at the masterpiece you accomplished.

While ignoring the paint sprinkled around your eye sockets.

European Holiday

Crossing the pond and feeling fond of what awaits, I’m smiling stepping through the immigration gates. Mind blown and pondering of the enticing unknown that’s wandering through these European burrows, I’m thorough in exchanging dollars to euros. Trying not to assume of what I might consume while my imagination glitches and tongue twitches thinking of all the beautiful ~~bitches~~ {*Mhmmm*} sights… architecture, city lights, culinary arts and history once heard in lectures during university. These are magnificent cities, once kingdoms built by religious bigotry, still beautiful and flourishing but now filled by “heretics,” street philosophy, sex for commission and the occasional religious oppression. Walking through valleys of dickless statues, examining bones in catacombs and feeling the malice of the queen’s guards in front of her palace. I raise my cup of fermented raisins and boast to propose a toast to my mates. Through my smile I say, “Comrades, to London, Rome, Paris, or wherever we may stay, let us enjoy this European Holiday.”

Oral

I’m not knowing what to expect so I sit in stress, ready to undress my last bits of uttered respect. I’m lustfully dreading the approaching event, nervously craving the excitement and I’m ready to participate without bets. Yeah, “First time for everything,” is cliché, but I’m hoping this won’t be a painful session of oral play. I studied long and hard how alphas woo with their bars. The friction from the rhythmic linguistics erected my verbal diction. So I anticipate to penetrate your psychology with my dialectology. ‘Cause I’ll be savagely spitting phrases in symmetry and performing spoken hysterectomies.

I’m not afraid or at fault for perversion caused by this orchestrated literary assault.

Questioning readiness is not an option. So I’ll just relax and sip on some potion. The liquid confidence can make me feel less tense, enough to forget about an audience. But if I chug too much and I’ll throw up word vomit followed by hiccups. I might be impaired and unable to see if I’m even performing adequately.

But I’m ALL IN and not looking to pull out.

I pouts as the spout is about to bust but i have to let every word out.

Shits nuts.