My Genius Sex of Scotch

by Michael Tillery
(Philadelphia, PA)

If only you were my charismatic vice of least resistance, I could love you more. Alas, you continue to be my why. My enigmatic style of chance.

The donor of orchestra, the idiosyncratic supremacy unprecedented. I wonder you closer...but stolen unavailability renders my future silent.

True apathy leaves me without choice. Secluded...unconscious in solitude. Lovely my thief. My genius sex in a neat glass of scotch.

I'm now, but to dream of your want is nothing but wasteful measure enabling a like annoyance striking lightening where there is no storm.

You will not be an aged salting maiden facing windows smelling of rain and lost lame fame. Laughter is temporary. Be a right decision of you.

I love you like the simple milk of January Jones but we are the fickle beginning crack above an ice skate lake. There is nothing to pretend.

There is nothing to bestow. Nothing to grow old. Nothing to seek. Nothing to fold. Calmly walk your unpretentious eyes from me and find safe.

What is safe? The fancy smiling wind in my background. The carefree summertime cafe. A crystal sun dress naked in truth. A shiny signal blinding yet far.

Without scar but I am hard. I see your whisper telling me to one day go as I am nothing left pleading for you my soul, to let me love you.

I am Christmas when I am with you, a mean bitch Mr. Grinch when I am not. The skin of your vision haunts me. There is soft and then there is definitive spirituality inclusive but also exclusive of lust.

Here there is no fairy tale but only a struck once heroic king unlucky of Medusa's throne. Damn you life wife, I merely long to be left alone.

Am I wrong to wish for her...My Genius Sex of Scotch?

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