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Poetry By
  Michael Curtis

Published on: 5/29/2012

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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