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Post by Nick Harris on Jul 24, 2009 9:33:05 GMT -5
I sleep in the nude. My sheets are a second skin. They make love to me. When I wake I flex my biceps, quads, buttocks before the mirror. I like being naked. I am the naked genius of this house. I hate wearing clothing. They chafe and tug. They are like children at a museum. I want to get rid of them so I can appreciate the art of my body. I want to walk the streets naked – every hooker’s fantasy. I want to suckle the breeze on my nipples, to swing low sweet chariot like Jesus on the cross. I want to be David of Michelangelo, to sling my nakedness at the giant sensibilities that rule society. But at night, sheets tucked into my loins, cool and smooth, I think of her, naked too in a garden prelapsarian and sleep the unholy sleep of Epicurus.
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Post by Don Schaeffer on Jul 25, 2009 6:47:45 GMT -5
Strong work.
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Post by Ivan Carswell on Jul 26, 2009 5:07:06 GMT -5
Classical imagery counterpoint to post-modern angst is extremely powerful stuff Nick. Especially when as well posited as this is.
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Post by inchiki on Jan 17, 2010 4:51:11 GMT -5
this is a great poem. did anyone else have to look up prelapsarian or do guys you all know that stuff?
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