Like Kissing Your Sister

If I said to you, “She was mad,” that doesn’t say too much--it is
lifeless, without color, without an oomph of spark or elan. 
But if I say to you, “She stomped her foot, grabbed a handful
of mashed potatoes and flung them in my face, and turned
red as a beet
all the while eyeing me with daggers sprayed with
mace,” then that would provide you with a much
clearer picture--Rush would be proud.
Yeah, Show Don‘t Tell; a good song,
a sage bit of writing advice. 

“She was mad;” Uh huh, that doesn’t do much to pique
the reader’s curiosity, it doesn’t grab one by the throat
with lumberjack mitts and compel one to find any
interest that would keep a yawn at bay or prevent
sand from filling both eyes.
Communication breakdown, of a sort.
I am speaking, all right, but saying little.
With only three words I am wearing threadbare rags
of gray blending into a cold November sky.  But with
the longer version, the more descriptive effort, I am dressed
in tweed blazer with a purple tie and alligator shoes.

To say, “She was mad,” I might as well kiss my sister.
If I had a sister, I wouldn’t want to, other than
as an obligation to do so out of sympathy,
or something like that.  But if desire be my intent,
if, (and I can hear Rush singing), I was loin tingling,
hot to merge, driven to tongue feminine orifice both north
and south, if I was hard in throbbing bulging within tight zippered Levis
with a seven inch member bulbous at the end conspicuous with prominent blue
vein curved in synchronous harmony with the thick of it, if entry
was my want and thrust my amorous longing becoming
because of hormones dancing like miniature satyrs
with tongues dangling and scrotum bouncing
to primitive rhythms conducive to the savage
horizontal--if that was, indeed, my lust,
I would not want to kiss sis.
I wouldn’t be up to it.


37 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
12-3-15