Welcome to my cock

I'm tired of using the evocative heart image to describe my waxing and waning self. I wrote a short monologue for an open mic at the illustrious Marburg hotel here in Cincinnati, speaking of my frustrations with this image, and the apparent lack of mention of cock anywhere in the conventional mode of love poetry. I'm not fifteen anymore, so accusations of low brow humor just will not do. I did not however read this monologue, therefore will attempt to rehash it here.

I am student of love, or life (aren't we all?) and recently was ejected from a very fine academy in the shape of a woman. Ejected, more like pushed out in such a way that requires my own momentum. Now I tumble through the ages, the winters pressing upon me in an indelible fashion.

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The heart is tied to the sex organs, therefore to my cock -- neither the form nor the shape, nor it's potential to another, for those aren't my concerns, but the idea of my sexuality extending beyond mere thought, but to tangible reason and forward motion; weather vane.

and the use of the word cock, rather than penis, is for poetic effect. cock is a word that sits awkwardly on the throne of consciences everywhere, and I intend to reclaim it here. We live in subtle times, awkward times, times of too many apologies. Bluntness is a forgotten virtue in my book.

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forgetting where I went from here, I start again on another venture.

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forcing myself to read last friday night at the Marburg Hotel, showed me that I need to spur my own side in this. that until writing becomes a habit again, I must force myself to do it, and regularly. Thus, you the reader will maybe see a bit more of me here in the written form, and my love goes out to you.

welcome back, corey.