The Rough Shards of My Psychic Pentimento

Avishek Sahu
November 28, 2016

Fantasy is my forte, with the brush that makes up my dread
Isn’t it what settles, when I have to walk a thousand miles for a morsel of bread
What good is sex then, if to get it I really have to lay bare my soul
And tell you out loud, that yeah, I have asked for it, only to be told to go bowl
At the games of her pansies lining up to clear out the ones who speak up
When she travelled to the hills to mate with a boy she held up
That was her answer to my cravings she dissed fast with flair
Oh she had to cock a snook at me and at the girls she thought I’d dare
But that’s good cause now I see in the eyes of the dames
The nous that she rues that holds me in the spell of wild flames
Oh the charms in the fingers and the slender dark arms made to warm
Makes me eye their plain feet and wonder too loud out of form
Isn’t that why I danced to the drums of the hustings this year
Thinking of how she’d be far away from all that I’ve held dear
What sweet love would be a diddle in the middle of sunny Sacramento
To heal the rough shards that you bet make up my psychic pentimento

Now don’t talk about nurture for really it’s so much so rare
With blouses all around rife with politics and nary a care
All they project on you is a desire to seek their fading heat
For a shag and a fag and to rip them all damn neat
You crave for some warmth but all you get is juvenile chick fare
Believe me she said I was a project she wished to win for fanfare
I was laying my cards open, ‘cause that’s how I stumble with heart
And saw her stamp on ‘em, just because she didn’t like how I start
Why couldn’t I be touchy, and tell her she was such a bundle of tears
Why was I hard to hold, hard to bind, and the best bet to stoke her crazed fears
Why couldn’t I be crushed down, and cut up so I’d just be hers
Why wouldn’t I give in, give up, and be no good for other she curs
Not that I tried, not that I saw clear in her sick ways
That I really was craving for the sexed pinch of faraway stingrays
Oh how sweet love would be a diddle in the middle of sunny Sacremento
To heal the rough shards that you bet make up my psychic pentimento