I don’t care for the truth.
What pleases an eye
derives within and through
adoration, love, fondness and
gratitude painting its source
winsome hominey hues.
Aesthetically speaking,
beauty lives outside,
objectified cultural cues,
like Adonis or Loren,
Farung, Omar or Denzell,
and, of course, Marilyn,
but whose standards sway?
No matter the cause, we
seek her, the alluring sashay
across our sensual, our pang
to be her, stare-slaught subject,
all gazed heat into the kiln
of beauty’s claim–fleeting
hypnotic charm–elite, select.
Common, I carry no beau bearing,
not even in my own way; yes
your hunger draws me sublime–
bony feast: scent, moan and caress.