Poetic Interlude XXXIII

It was a foundation, and also a word, in the wickedest man I know,
A few drinks in the story of its birth.
I am far too small for answers, for an embrace,
For Art is white and cold, and will be many others,
Most lucid at playing the ancient games.

Lord, I remember the bartender,
The institutionalized uncle’s affair,
Our sordid lives that summer.
The kiss was blurry, on the fifth,
Less tidy than murder.

The flaws aren’t soft
When I am assaulted by forty years.
I am seething, waiting for jail.
I am looking for a month,
Or a love affair tres sérieux.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

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About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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