Planet Ezzie (2. The P-word)


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I’m not dis- dis- dis- … I can’t type it. I am not p-0-s-s-e-e-s-s-ed. Not by a succubus. Anything but. Definitely not. Not!

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Underneath, undercover, underdressed, undressed, … understand?

She is like a light rain, literally in a certain way. She clings onto me, but can’t enter, due to the henna. She cannot force my actions, but she can prevent some. Sometimes, I can find a world, err, workaround. I have never been particularly sensitive to the spirit world, but I can sense her. She is a go- god- godd- … an annoyance. She does things to me that are out of my control. She surrounds me with a light rain of post-coital sweat, leaving me teetering on the edge of arousal. Wet on the surface, but not drenched. I orgas … wait … orgasm at the slightest provocation – just thinking about it, seeing something sensual, like a kiss, hand-holding, a love scene on the telly, being touched – not every touch, but when I least expect it. (Hold on … I’m OK now.)

4 of SWORDS. Truce.

Over the past several months, I have learned to live with the constant itch to have sex. I have decided on a strange form of celibacy, having orgasms several times a day, but no relationships. Someday it may happen, but I’ll put it off as long as I can. And I dream – wild dreams – wild sex dreams – naked wild sex dreams (she loves it when I say that).

She has particular tastes. She likes tall blond men, and I’ve noticed that my hair bleaches much more easily in the sun – almost immediately. I’m quite blond at the moment. Blondes proposition me on a frequent basis, and if I touch one, either intentionally, but especially by accident, it is a certain orgasm. She also likes to be discussed. Notice that my typing is fluent, as long as I’m not resisting her. It’s appeasement at the moment.

I’ve been appointed assistant personnel manager of the orchestra. That means more contact with my colleagues, physical as well as figurative. I’m spending more time with people, and accidental contact is more likely. People that don’t get me or understand me are attracted to me. They hate, yet they adore. They would elect me President if I spent too much time in public. This dis- dis-, you know what I’m referring to. It does that. I’ve been dispossessed, but not repossessed, she hangs around me, but I am definitely not, you know, the P-word.



Rhyming, I’m certain, is a thing,
Let me take you under my wing.
Sometimes I think it is a blast,
Before I knew I thought too fast.

Rhythm is the thing for me, it’s
More than just one, two, and three.
The swing and sway so makes me dance,
And my poems it doth enhance.

A rhyme can kill the seed that’s sown,
But meter gives me chills deep down,
Bars of two, three, five, and seven,
Takes my soul up to high heaven.

If sublime is what you mean to be,
It’s free verse that gives me ecstasy.
It gives me wings on which to fly,
Onto the wind and up to the stars.