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  • Bubbling perineum

    1 comments Published Mar 30, 10 AM
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    By Louis Cortese 

    I came across

    a house of souls

    singing songs

    to Shiva June.

    They danced

    and moved

    they shook

    the womb,

    Inside the Om lyceum.

    I absorbed the tune

    and shed my gloom,

    my gaze turned in

    and felt the yin

    in my bubbling perineum.


    A master imp

    across the room

    his head tucked in

    below the moon

    The princess blonde

    in her sacred nook

    sat down with us

    and read her book,

    chanting quotes per diem.

    The forearm stand

    the toes so grand

    meander up

    the darkened land,

    of my bubbling perineum.



    and her sister Dee

    contained their smiles


    Aligning love


    their formless forms

    adorned the wall

    in yoga’s art museum.

    Curvaceous Joan’s

    undulating spire

    is sweating beads

    of raw desire

    from her bubbling perineum.


    Floorboards creek,

    bright eyes seek,

    wise men know

    but will not speak

    Of fortune found

    that has no bounds

    whose message sounds

    a call to all

    to the hatha coliseum.

    As crowds balloon

    inside this room

    heads decked out

    in an downward plume

    to the bubbling perineum


    Disconnected, a bit affected

    they walk on clouds

    of well respected

    Tall and shapely

    they glide past,

    way above a lower caste,

    they of the gilded cast,

    bow their heads

    just to see them.

    Crustaceous bones

    produce loud moans

    chanting Oms

    a bit like drones

    from their bubbling perineum.

    About Louis Cortese

    Lou , in his life, has been a precocious young boy in an anachronistic town in the mountains of Sicily, an immigrant at the age of 8 arriving by way of an ocean liner to the shores of the west side of Manhattan, a guido from the Bronx, a hippy, a Zen Buddhist, a businessman, a yogi and a conventional family man with three sons and two grandchildren, among other things, none of which describes his true self and all of which in the aggregate do not give a full account of him. If his story is not he, then what is? He’s still looking.