Jessy Assy

We live in a pornographic world –

soiled with piss-covered sheets

and cigarette-ash-stains

that anchor down the curses

begrudgingly departing

an angry nonconformist's dilapidated lips;

lips gone tired of a world filled with artifice,

deplete of luster,

and above all things

Grey, Grey, Grey.

This world is dry; parched.

It is fatigued from

carrying problematic wonderings.

Should one please with thoughts or think of pleasure?

Musings of lascivious roses

once properly pruned and nurtured,

now metamorphose into burdensome whisperings

of perennial demises;

of severing and relocating to

cold, painful, and empty vases

now pervading bourgeois living rooms

that hamper the floral desire

to forever wallow in the wind,

the breeze,

and the dust.

If this world were hydrated,

tepid colors would procure its moisture

as faces evolve into waterproof vessels

preventing unwelcome leaks from seeping in.

Invisible horses

would gallop straight

into heavy clouds

that one could cut with a pair of scissors

instantly terminating

any possible multiple droplet pregnancies.

This world knows neither rest nor sleep;

only turmoil, instability, and destruction.

It disseminates chaotic images of

blizzards, earthquakes, and whirlwinds - 

photographs of a man’s fornication,

with his golden cross

repetitively thumping against

his gentle lover’s forehead

who finds herself

lividly lost

wanting the cake yet wanting to eat it too.

In this world we live in,

Irish pots of gold are profuse

but filled with caffeine instead of riches

stealthily suffocating the voices

that touch thoughts

and plant the feelings

that might one day grow to

fertilize minds with abrasive

screams of “Mutiny! Revolt! Resistance!”

all the while reminiscent of heavenly treats:

soft, pure, white

and once upon a very long time ago,

innocent.