Mind-Fuck [poem]
If I could fuck your mind I would.
By what it would be fucked I cannot tell.
But something in me wants to fuck it hard;
I think I read you also do as well.
Bodies drenched in skinsmooth beauty
forn (and fawn) and porn themselves like
STD confetti on the potent wind of lust.
But physical attraction (when divorced
from mighty dreamfilled powers of mind)
is something I can never inly trust.
And so I say I want you for your mind.
Your body’s groovy too but when I look
into the inner workings of my hot desire
by far the deepest feelings that I find —
by which I mean the fiercest fire which
burns in me for womankind — is nothing
I can touch or feel with naked skin on skin
but something wholly else and deep within.
Or could it be without? I’m never sure
if mind dwells in the head or not; but
nonetheless it’s with your disembodied
mind I want to nowly comely go to bed.
Some years ago I met this lithely chick.
Breasts and ass and knees to die for
legs like velvet, thighs one longs to lick.
I took her to the cinema to watch
a film of mystery, magnificence
and subtlety, sagaciousness and
no trace of frivolity. But when I tried
to speak with her about the wonders
of this celluloidal masterpiece
she didn’t have a clue of what had
taken place before her eyes and
in the instant of that moment my intense
attraction to her corpse was neutralised.
For only in the labyrinthish intricacy
of a woman’s gorgeous mind or psyche
soul or heart-dreams unconfined
can penile hardness bigly grow and
spunky semen overflow not into juicy
vulvic holes or crudeful Playboy centrefolds
but through the voidlike ether of the air
between us — unseen love dust — smash
to smithereen us, wean us onto dreamlust.
If I could fuck your mind I would.
In what it would be fucked I do not know
But entry quickly slickly would be made:
The ultimate in spiritual afterglow.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 