Salim Gold

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Anti-Exile

My exile from you is unamusing.

When will we know again our proud mingling?

I want you with visceral explicitness

(Metaphor’s useless, if not palpable.)

I’m a vulgar scribbler, tis true—

Prim, but dirty.  I like unabashed sex.

A hypocrite is an imposter saint,

A preposterous saint.  That’s not me, Laila!

I’m too antsy, my feelings too violent.

I can’t shy from our truthful dirt and filth.

Your skin is silk; your hair’s soft as feathers.

You’re a monument of bright bullion.

The desolation of travelers is, we’re

Turbulent as smoke.  That’s me—without you.

Solo, I’m like an angel with dead wings.

 

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