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I dream of poets
those seductive things,
ringing,
bringing
me hypnotized,
sensitized,
for for me,
see
there is no such thing
as an ugly poet.
Even the ones who are.
When they
open those whirl-twirl mouths,
are transformed
into hematite sun sets
by swirling rhyme
into potential mazes
of crazed,
raised fantasy
cum and sweat.
Those words of blood,
mud and mostly beer
give me
carnivore eyes.
I can not help
but slit my gaze
into a haze of
tantalized gray.
Even if I don't give a shit
what they say.
I am magnetized
by the moving soothing
bell-toll of lips,
and holy-roll of soul.
And Always,
I dream of poet tongues.
