What I crawl toward, with what’s left on the tray, dull but piquant, there’s no name for in your swanky idiom. I drain you, delicious. Afterwards you’re tedious and stupid. I’m omniscient, hitting that pedal point looking for the scarce train of my thoughts. It opens a channel though, where fresh things swing into a simple mind.
What’s in your market is free, telling me how you roasted while I blew and murdered you below the neck. You cry and grab my collar in your burly arms. It’s illustrious, this dirt. We do it right somehow, numerous times in fact, and write psalms to the literate night.
I imagine a field someplace where a damp cow forsakes a plastic existence as unsuitable milk while I proceed to boil an egg in order to begin making a snotty, cautious crib for our descendants. But it’s our place to whine about. So I exchange a bubble with an outgoing thirsty blue sky.
Misty Rampart's writing expresses the freedom and limitless power achievable through a more open sexuality in a society that tries to keep the carnal hidden below the surface. She seeks to change the conversation to one in which the relationships between men and women are an open, honest, and breathtaking debate, where women are free to voice and fulfill their deepest desires without judgment.