Saturday, August 07, 2004

The Messenger, Not The Message

The handsome Aboriginal boy read his choice to win the poem of the millennium.

He started off haunting and slow, with a cadence of wide open lands and sorrow.

Square head, beautiful eyes, fetching black hair, sensuous, curved lips and a pink tongue.

Young and vital, immediate and masculine, perched there in front on the stage.

Giving it his best.

Deep man's voice, hardly a flicker of his wonderful eyes, betraying his reading, concentrating so.

I watched them carefully for a flicker, a glance, a look, a change, there was not.

I listened to the words wanting to be inspired, taken by beauty, dazzled by meaning. I was not.

I began to shift on my seat, pull my jacket around, check for my wallet, adjust my shirt.

Not a clue.

But, if you can sell it with beauty, testosterone, good looks, you had me. I just watched his lips.

I drank in his appeal, not his words. The package was more powerful than the substance. I found myself focusing on him.

I wondered what he had hidden from view? What delights did he have hidden from sight?

I daydreamed about his velvety skin, his chocolate nipples, his curvaceous lips and the beauty he was sitting on.


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