Voicemail

Voicemail.

To those who would whore you
profess to adore you
I saw right through you and
your
sweet refrain.

On the porno
Michaelangelo,
flat on his back,
I didn’t expect that and
neither did you.

I am calling a taxi, but
the internet tracks me and the
porno reflects me under a pristine
refectory where the faithful say mass for me
and it’s dreadful to see.

On the hour comes epiphany, an epic on channel three,
she’s someone Michaelangelo should really see,
but it’s not up to me.

Because I who admire you, who would walk through the fire for you and lay down and die for you am through with the
bullshit.

It’s time to get down to it, open up and put your mind to it or else we may find that it’s
a complete waste
of time.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.