Insanity
It’s not their beauty
Or their curves
That drives me to insanity
It’s not the concave of the navel
Or the bends in their backs
It’s not the softness of their skin
Or scent of their soul
That makes me insane
It’s not their delight
Or kindness
It’s not their slenderness
Or intelligence
That brings me to the ward
It’s the way they are presented
Displayed
On a pedestal
It’s their clothes
Their makeup
Their garments
Their extras
Their beautifications
It’s their transparent white blouses
Their lace white bras
And tight red skirts
It’s their thong underwear
And hot red barbie lipstick
It’s their sistership
And innocence
Their leather pants
And latex too
It’s their
Corporate perfume
And
Designer’s gain
It’s their made-up high cheek bones
And gravity killed tits
That’s what makes
me insane
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.04.20.00:00:00@Atlantic Ocean/London -> NYC
Interrupted Silence
I traveled through her canal
Under her sweet dirt
I listened to her words
Static came in-between
Separated us at birth
Interference melted me
Venom punctured my lips
My eyes rolled back into my scull
I listened strongly
Her words scattering on my lighted horizon
Pollution settled in
Advertised through copper wires
Ruined by Hollywood production
Past deep inside
Surveillance as I pullout
Spotlight on me
Her voice is gone now
I cry in my memories
My camera falls forward
I am unsettled
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.01.20.13:36:00@NYC10036
I Think I Love You
I think I love you
When I am willing
To penetrate
To end all wars
To meet your parents
To grow up in your arms
To taste your tears
To borrow your past
And bury your relatives
I think I love you
When I am afraid
To become a new born
To tear down your walls inside
To reach out and touch your heart
To climax forever
To enter a new realm
To climb a trail of heavenly love
I think I hate you
Now and forever
I will hate you until
The end of the world
The end of my time
The end of molestation
And Impregnation
The end of revolution
And juxtaposition
The end of my time
As a Necrophiliac
And as a Transsexual
As a Nymphomaniac
And as a Pyromaniac
As a Pathological Liar
And as your God
I am afraid
Of the dark
And your large cock
I am afraid
Of Love
To Love
To be Loved
I think I love you
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.04.07.00:00:00@31USQWNYC