[Veins Vacant for Rent] a poem

Maybe something unsociable,
unpleasant,
unreliable,
is alive in these pages;
uncertain, hesitant pen strokes
are the sure exception

I recreate adrenaline,
a rush to the hypothalamus,
an artificial petulance,
as wild & potent as the smile
of the smitten,
silver & remembered as those
lost to us still breathing next to us

The body pleasurably becomes
a pleasure addict once deflowered
& the broken hymen of the mind minds not
a bit of pain with the titillating touch



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]