The Poet's Beat

I once won a slam poetry contest with this little piece...

Profound scenes,
of multiple handsome man-children,
with their cocks hanging below their knees,
parade before me,
in the infinite space of my mind,
traipsing through gardens of pansies,
swinging by their members through tall cedar trees,
handling those flesh socks with their steely knuckles
     in any way they please,
gathering coconuts and pineapples and slender stiff bananas
     for the feast,
the main course featuring the remains of the island beast,
released last year to grow fat in the interval,
during the time of peace,
a period fit only for thumb twiddling,
and games with grease,
our desires decreased over time,
lost in the breeze,
fed fresh to us from the sea,
pleading from a conch shell to be set free,
still,
still,
this is my madness, you see,
as deep as infinity,
and as dark as I care for it to be,
no matter if its meaning disappears
     like a flock of geese in the winter,
this is my period piece,
the news flash during my press release,
some nursery rhyme that has something
     to do with some golden fleece,
sweet,
too sweet,
hope you agree,
my fingers speak faster than my heart or my mouth or my feet,
perverted, a little,

I’m sure I’ll catch heat,
but if nothing else I’m a slave to the scene,
and nobody wins the race by driving in the backseat,
I’m nothing if not true to my words,
to the poet’s beat.

3.28.2012