Psychology of 

an Aching Body

Your mind ought be 

an over-thrown dictatorship 

if you’re to be 

any good

to anyone.

Your heart must plot 

to re-establish

a more tender 

sovereignty. 

Your face wants 

a life of it’s own,

let’s face it.

Given to coercing 

the hands

to do a more

purposeful bidding, 

as hands can do 

everything

save live a life 

of their own.

Your face flies 

it’s tattered flag

declaring your 

countries intentions;

it’s betrayal of truth,

a hapless art.

Your legs craving travel

remain pale slaves

to the feet which

favor the lesser

gravities

of water,

as if reduced

to doves stunned

out of flight.

All the while

the mouth rehearses

its memories

of a kiss,

wanting yet another

chance to go slower;

the starving slug

of it’s own

nocturnal kingdom.

Addicted to confession

and connecting, 

the most loving

mouth leaves

a sticky trail 

of longing.

Your heart, a sacred cow

buried in an open field,

a carcass destined to

feed the hungry;

it’s brokenness 

gives all who

approach it

strength.

Your nose lives 

by remembering

the essence of daisies

and dung.

The great categorizer,

the nostrils operate

with aloof efficiency,

uncategorically aware 

that smells

are life itself.

The penis, reduced

to living 

under wraps,

generating it’s own

mythic mystique

like a Garbo 

continuously lured

from retirement,

cherished by 

so many for it’s 

way with weeping.

Your hair, if any;

an evidence 

of life after death,

dust from the scalp,

holographic by nature

resembling

a stretch of sand

certain angels 

have tread

in hopes of being

followed

home.

Peter Valentyne

May 26th, 2019