Ohan Hominis performs Inspiration in Washington Square Park.
Video and Audio: Matt Hefferon
Its a funny thing,
I haven’t written anything all week
wandering around the city
looking for something new
something to drive me to write
and then here you are
in my company for minutes
and i’ve already chopped down writers block to build us a bedframe,
my sense of purpose turned passion
as I feast on your skin
to remain sane in this self imposed corporate exile.
Turns out im no professional writer,
the absurdity of office life was my muse
keeping at bay a forest of uninspiration
but now it’s you,
who are my axe,
helping me stave away the chills of creative drought.
I glance at you from over the brim of my book
pen in hand as you undress at the foot of my bed
you catch me staring,
admiring your casual elegance
with anyone else looking through my blindless windows.
I watch a smile swim across your lips
at the sight of the madman narrating his appreciation of you,
sprawled out nude below the neck
face covered by pages filled with his own words
save for his eyes
and frayed hair curled in every direction.
What is love if not the ability to be amused by eccentricity,
how long can you watch me watching you watch me as I watch you
and what does all that watching amount to,
how telling of time past in one anothers company.
I think you sense how annoyed you’d be at the last verse
because you’ve started crawling
on all fours
the mischievous smile that makes me rush these words knowingly,
I scrawl thoughts hurriedly as you linger longingly
at sensitive places on my body to distract me.
the pen knows
what limited time it has left
before the mind that drives it
is drained of blood as passion
defines the present moment
and we dive into it
– but wait
I’m not done yet,
not ready to start,
your lips hover over my neck
as your hands reach for my book
and I wri-