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Jason PraTT

Tomorrow's Promise

I wanted to write
you an intriguing lyric
that favored
Shakespeare and
Ovid’s erotica
but the desires that be
did not allow my
attempt of nestling metaphors

Indeed, usually the gift
of grand gesture
grants my brush strokes
the most vivid
ink to pour into
riveting colors
for your eyes only
marveling at the distinct
structure and the
deepened detail of each
line

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And Despite My Hybrid Emotions

the nightly silence is what
lures me into dreams
bare and bidding the thoughts
keen and careful
that would instruct me to say
my longing for you is not without
the merit of our delectable
and devouring past
your being ~ my muse, still
as I wander within each whisper
that you send to me
while your hands caresses
my weary shoulders as I
slave over this pen and page
and nightly hours, writing love:
letters and ballads in your
favor
lost in metaphor:
your: wonders in vision
snug in a sensual embrace

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wilma and I have not

wilma and I have not always se
en eye-to-eye, whereas eye could
not fathom the times where we ever
agreed upon anything outside of what
color her hair might have been if she
decided to dress up like a whore and
rap(e) my doorb_ll wearing nothing
more than a overcoat, dripping from
the rain, with her mascara running
around her cheeks like a racoon
forcing me to commit mutual bestiality
with her animal instinct and my animal
scent pouncing up and down upon her
while her face is pressed in the pillow
while her hips are placed in the air, while
her flatulent loins kisses my harsh pen(is)
etration during our inconsiderate love
affair, here on her husband’s bed, or was
it my bed and {she} was really the one
romping like a sex-craved convict on a

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Secrets In My Shoes

I met my lover in London
Thigh deep in sage and scarlet roses
Shaken by the river’s thrush tavern
Twilight in the brushes that combed her hair

The drifting thorns in the blackness, vouching
Adrift in the sake that shifts into the far horizon
The whirlpool of the streams amongst the shadows
Cradled in pleasures beneath the falling stars

Thus London, I figured, was my haven:
Vanishing music, twilight liquor
A stealthy recitation of the present
Poured into the goblets by vestal laughter

The precious songs that our tongues spoke in rivers
To licking the chords that is native to our deep desires
Overflowing in volumes of ecstasy that are borrowed
Throughout flourishing dismissal, spelled out in vowels

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As the Edge of the Moon

I have stained my soul with scarlet colors, thus this work
The ballad of merlot and mandolins, the bliss is midnight blue
The deep black is but her hungry delight
Thus I dye her desires a darker scarlet within the foils of my flesh

As the edge of the moon watched over our swallowing dance
Evening had long settled into the wit of the light and slow rain
Distinct in the thought of our lust consuming the blackberry wine
As the bottle overflowed throughout the frolic of our ecstasy

Her heart is but scarlet colored, her kisses are like tight fisted flowers
Her gentle hands in the threshold and the deep suite waters
The sharp love that blots my soul somewhat like her devilish shadow
Thereafter, my emotions are stained with her sweet scarlet

The bare bedroom in the pulp and the deep black music
As I come to bed where she lays sweet and in favor
I have stained my soul with her scarlet color, thus this work
Evening having settled into the song as the edge of the moon

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