By: Iris P. Concepcion
No, I press my stomach
Not to feel its wiggle
Nor play wigmam inside
Its intestines
Grinding last night's
Dinner
I press it for
The plenty
Schedules of unswam beaches
Together but separated
As you choose
To subdue and wage battles
With the dirt, mud, sun and boors
The bitches of endless shores
Floating breasts
You abhorred (in sly)
Like twin peaks
Of inferno
Cramming in your
Passion outside
Your girlfriend's innards
Circled and twined
Christmas came as an adult
February arrived as a faggot
With no normal gifts
On sight, sighs behold
The most precious for the heart
Lingered in the throat
As wiped thirst
Iridescently reduced
In that tall glass of water
Crushed ice meticulously cut with love
All years come to naught
But good tidings, good tidings!
Finally consumed.
Happy Valentine's day to a fellow fighter who had endured with me: for my baddest moments that you had turned into sublime rewards after having had to walk the mile and trashing the rowdy, potbellied types.
P.S. That glass with pink hearts was all gizmo. Gooey but a huge base saver. Wink.