Hissing Pen

Which came first, the ova or the hen?
Where’s the leak?
Coming out this hissing pen that often gauges straight until put upon the page.

What’s its wage?
What week’s pay might you part with,
Straight dismiss, without profit seen for loftiness,
Baudy bliss in a crimson kiss that twisted past all reason and supplanted ethereality in the mist that hangs this season?

Missed her, harkened hardly when he blistered,
Fixtures that folded by the fistful of their issues,
Excuses quartered and crammed inside the alley,
When the truth of the matter is just that he missed her badly.

Madly, making another go at it,
In definite, whole-heartedly repping it,
Peppering it with passion in its fashion,
Embracing each other warmly, though guarded, knowing full well what might happen;
Not dampened but definite,
Not crammed into celibate,
Sampling wit transposed in early morning jostling like a fit,
Luxuriating longly in the limelight of discovery,
Not hiding that she’s loving me, she says it with her eyes,
That spoke across a crowded room that one and fateful night.

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