The Devil on the headboard
he sways and strokes his
He says his girlfriend jacks off
with the faucet in the bathtub
He says she let’s him watch ‘
cause she loves him.
Now he says prey:
“Don’t make it too hard, OK?”
Since nothin’ says lovin’ like
somethin’ in my oven
he makes a mess o’ Bisquicks
as a feather drifts into my
ear and whispers about rock
and world politics.
(C) Rob Goldstein 11/26/1984 -2017
My cheeks are red; like cuts of fresh beef.
This clarity of complexion is significant but I can’t locate its source.
The source of significance is always obscure, like the meaning of “High Art’.
Let us assume for a moment that ‘high art’ is art that makes no sense.
Let us also assume that high art is useless.
By virtue of assumption, we enter the realm of critic: one responsible for deciding what is high and who goes low.
They name what we haven’t.
Delusional grandiosity is the basis of all civilized discourse.
What we say is true, is true, because we say it is.
Thus, I poke my complexion and objectively call it clear, but can I
call it high?
(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved
image and text (c) Rob Goldstein 2017