Monday, February 20, 2012

Faces of the Son

I Love To Write.

Even When I'm In A Comfortable Dream Mendicating With The Beggars I Conjure Up The Words That Make The World Swing With An “Every Man” Tycoon Class.
I Love To Write About My Sexual Fantasies And The Casual Joys That Have Me Kissing The Planets In Gratitude And Celebration.

On The Summer Porch With A Cold Beer Quenching The Whip ~ On My Sofa With A Burning Joint Parting My Lips. With My Snakes Making A Dance In The Gritty Sand
And The Sunset Going Down On Venice,
I Love To Write The Faces Of The Son.

Pornography And Poetry Always Seem To Boost My Ego When The Pressure Becomes Too Real.
Either Composition Works.
They Go Hand In Hand Fueling Each Other. At Least They Do For Me.
They Feed Me So I Write
And I Express.

I Love To Write ~

Crazy About The Pale Goddess ~ Forbidden - Ever-present – Charming Til The Song Of The Swan. Forever The Moon She Is, Her Incantations & Rhymes Evanescing To The Big E Weaving Solutions To My Tribulations.

I Love To Write About The Galaxy Lover Taking A Sweet Chance And The Sex Action That Goes Down South Like A Masterpiece Making It Scream.
The Beige House On Venice's Where It Started And Cannabis Was Key In Igniting It.

I'll Never Forget That Little Place Or The Great Industrial Civilization
That Followed It.

1995 – 6.11
Victor Millan

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