Poetry By
Michael Curtis
Published on: 5/29/2012
Thesis
He had a beard, a balding head, A cane to help him walk; His students wrote down all he said Within their gilded books. Through blisters on his lips and tongue He spat out little pearls, Strung them on a chord of song, And hung them on a girl. A pretty creature slim and tall Whose face was made for show; Her wit alas was thick and dull As rock that will not grow. She liked to sit upon his lap In wonder at his words That flowed like wine from his old lips Directly into hers Until he spent within her flesh The measure of his worth; In dying thoughts on empty breath. Lost in golden curls. So when the sages came to ask What wisdom she had gained, She shyly hugged her tingling breasts Through halting breath to say, "He liked to talk and liked to sing In riddles and with wit, But there were just so many things I could make no sense of it. Yet once when I had bit his ear, So much that it had bled, He glared on me quite serious And said, "Just sex and death."
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