Stays of Execution
Create something, they said,
something tangible, something with words.
You have one day. And then you'll be killed.
This room holds only pen and paper.
This is the future, this bears the weight
of the future. The door is locked,
The only way out is to write. Create.
No inspiration, no muse descends
to stay this execution, to offer a reprieve.
Something tangible, something
Hell must be like this.
Create something, something tangible.
Something with words.
The second one is about a woman who came on to me once--in a gay bar, of
all places. Though it's not explicitly bi, it doesn't exactly hide it,
either. (I was not especially attracted to this particular woman,
although we did kiss rather graphically for part of the night.)
In fantasy you are anything I want you to be:
I create and recreate you this way, like gods.
Yes, you are a woman and I am a man,
but the truth is rarely this simple:
in this fantasy you are much more,
the Trinity fucking Mother Nature,
in this fantasy I want you.
I could only ever want you,
I could only ever want you
if I wanted you, your tongue
caressing mine like doomed love,
our tongues caressing bodies
like war, erotic as midnight,
or frigid as blood.
I have more to give than you know,
more to take than you understand.
Don't be hurt when I walk away,
because I'll still dream of you.
Though you and I are in this place,
you come to me, changing,
holding fear in your hands like sacrifice,
holding passions like your heart,
like your burning heart.
Craig A. Schiller (firstname.lastname@example.org)
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