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Voice By The Pen-Guin

King And Queen Of Concourse

Visual By Aspernaut


I spend a lot of time to myself. A thinker. Constantly contemplating.

This gift can easily turn cursed. Hallelujah to Halloween.

Intuitive minds cause pain and pleasure. Yet my cerebellum celebrates thinking on the purity of love.

A powerful word, and even more powerful concept. Of thought.

One being completely intertwined with another. And love is pure. Right? Right?

Surpasses all. Surperceeds all contexts and complications.

Picasso nor Michelangelo himself can compare.


Brush strokes, of affection and compromise, chissel away at hardened hearts and tear drops of salt.

A barter system. Soul for a soul.

Something money couldn't possibly purchase. Suppossedly priceless.

Yet my cerebellum sickens. At one thought. Overthinking.

Some feel love has limits. Remixing romance with lust. So much pressure.

Down by one. So we draw fourth quarter plays. Looking for a body to beat the buzzer.

Punting away purity.


A soft note of non-compliance. Beloved basslines. Violin strings of selflessness. Organized noise.

Possessions count for nothing.

Relying on that "face" you have to wipe off at night.

Maybelline doesn't make the queen.

He made no mistakes.

We place more demand on DeBeers than on what that worthless rock represents.

More precious. The ruby inside of you.

So you and I.

Take our intuitive minds.

Turn our heads to the side.

And VVS this portrait from a different angle.


Blow away a millennia worth of dusty destructive distractions.

Paint to your heart's content.

Write more rights and erase wrongs.

Her melody.

Dance to the pulse of a heart filled. Joy.

A dose of Eros.


I want to thank Aspernaut for letting me use his painting as the visual focal point for this poem.

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