He Moved On

copyright @aladreth antoinette brown



"He has his winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forgo his mortal nature." - John Keats



he moved on,
way on
to eight or ten
Rubenesque girls
all in love
with his good luck splurge

me, just one girl,
(I mean guy,)
big vulgar
creases
where he smiled a lot
on the River Thames
with its sea of lights,
silver pillars
in a church,
black green
porter bottle
lights

I dreamed
of changing tattoos
and telling my daughter,
one day, who her dad was
but, basically,
I did nothing.
I didn't change
for better
or worse.

he started fresh
with a pure green breast,
her milk
more than likely
wholesome,
long hair down her back
playing nurse
to him,
her beautiful pasty butt,
the taste in his mouth
of magic
and peppermint

candy balloon drops
to foreign lands
because we are so hated
here in America
he took his books,
records,
clothes,
and a clock,
he took his long stalk,
purple foxglove,
his singing tongue winding
wicked ways in bed,
he took
his colon,
as long as he is tall.

he took it all.

I went and confessed,
"I cursed."
"I told lies."
"I thought of murdering someone."
"Yes, I suppose I had bad thoughts."

But, now, I'm freed
of responsibility,
of feeling eternally guilty
...Because he's happy.

And, me...
at times,
I long to be touched,
but you can't just go out,
and ask people to touch you,
can you?