Lorenzo Buford

Imaginary Poet


Storms

Torments of the flesh,
     Storms of the flesh,
         Storms of the senses,

are
dark clouds of
erotic desires

and

this rain of heat
is leaving me
sacrificial
to appease
Strangers' tongues that are like lightning
that will not illuminate my mind
but
only leave crevices in the flesh of Strangers' workings
that are made to house fragments of this Soul.

This dark male mother weeps
in the spillage from phallic storms.

There is no shelter
from the elements
that are gathering
to make a new house
    that is a prison
    rooted
    in the insanity of Strangers
as I ingest
the aftermath
of their erotic masturbations.

I am a Thing not named
that is twisting in its dark passions
while thundering with orgasms
that leave me wandering
in madness
because no touch
has healed my weeping
that is rooted in shadows
when I am exiled from the Beloved
so I have twisted
myself
into alleys for Strangers to walk
to appease their dark yearnings
as my forms sit in the windows
beckoning Strangers to feed their hungers.

I am thundering
in time and space
from
twisting and screaming
in strangers' phallic storms.

Storms of flesh
    are devastating the mindscapes I have made to find my selves.

Storms of senses
    are drowning the garden; that rises from dark passion
    and made a bar in the sexual underworld,
    and have ejaculated a graveyard
where I sit on a tombstone throne
    with a vampire lover.

and yet, somehow
this phallic pillar that I am,
stands
among these chaotic indulgences.

This inscribed pillar
stands
waiting
in many multi-dimensional forms
to awaken the Light into the Life.

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