sexy

Pale lips flutter alight,
Mouthing phantom praise, saxophone coos.

The flesh hung from supple
Cords, taut and handy,
Brown and luxurious.
Molded of wet clay,
Glistening and heavy, pressed
By gravity onto textured chairs.
I felt the compulsory
Touch of thickly rolled
Thighs against me.
The glint of the onyx eyes
From under lashes and hair
Signaled something like the
Bittersweet tin of semen.

Hair bobbed and framing her
Eyes like the flaps of a tee-pee.

Her lips are soft, full, and round and
Press softly into crevices and trace
Hills and valleys leaving waxy trails of
Lipstick and the texture of her lips
Like fingerprints Identifying the
Writer of the letters

I noticed the silver tin wrapper of
The Lifestyles condom you hid in
Your transparent Armani handbag.

I sat there supposing
That the foil would
Open for my use-- its
Silken present my
restraint.

A centrifugal head-spin,
A cowering dyspepsia of spiny
Thoughts and dissections
Pitches me forward.
She parts me easily
And plunges in with barbed wire
And bottle cap love.

A hateful lovemaking:
Golden fog perfume and full lips,
Shimmering gold skin appeals,
Then cuts -- bleeds
Long and red down my back.

Flesh grows hard and white around
The blackened blade in my back,
The jagged handle protrudes. Still,
I am unable to remove it.

Agony. Ripping pain,
An arched back,
A howling scowl,

Contraband heroine;
Ice packets, ice prophets.
Plumes of iridescent
Neon and platinum shimmer
Like blacktop mirage;
Curving glass hums against
Flickering butane rockets:
Blue and white edged by red
To white, to gray --

Explosive brilliance
Of boulders tossed into a still pond.
Circles of blue and black
Distend out forever --
Disturbing pageantry:
A gentry with esoteric delusions,
Of substandard highs and
Irreproachable lows.

Deranged phychobabble in three stanzas.
Thrown chairs shatter, raging lunacy howls,
And the Mossberg speaks in twelve-gauge shot.
The lifeline death; her breath is
Sweet like flowers,
Her one night stand, eternity;
She glides, in gossamer gown,
And stoops, thin fingers lifting the
Hard White stone.

saw woman in a red callico dress, thin sun dress and she had long slender legs pressed into nude-leather open-toes shoes with a pressed leather heel. Her toe nails were plum. The skin of her legs was translucent and pale and smooth. The dress covered her upper thigh but the hip was smooth under the thin fabric and her smooth tummy rose to a round bosom. Her arms were slender and her nails were short and natural. Her eyebrows were strong but her hair was dark and full and fell to her shoulder in one splash. Her skin was clear and her mouth was full and she sat there in the cafe nursing a coffee shake with a guy friend and I caught her eye and she looked at me and I couldn't read my Gravity's Rainbow -- then a friend of mine came in and we went outside for a cigarette and she left past us looked back and she and he took off in a civic... but her slim pale legs winked at me once more as she drew them into the car then she shut the door and as she passed I followed her and she smiled and left into the night in the white japanese import.

Her hot pants dance and dazzle
Feet flutter under pale spinning calves.
Her Skin is spread taut under the
Taut cloth of her orange tunic,
It presses against nippled breasts.

The hair crashes and splashes against
Her shoulders -- their chocolate waves spread
On awkward shoulders.
She jounces and pops hair into a
Feathery fan -- then into a
Knot upon the fragile scalp.

Twisting, hopping and grinding hips
Pop hard in the new unripe
Peach delicacy -- the cleft cut crisply
Between flared pelvis.

Her breasts hop, not bounce --
They are the prologue to her body and
I am dazzled. They
Have a loft like steam.

Like drops of semen on sheets
As good as, just as unjust
The flair, the curve, the line is
Preposterous.

Formed like a girl
Built like a woman
Upon the great frame
Female -- feast your eyes.

What is herstory?
I want that budding breast in
My mouth. I need that Thigh
flesh bunched between my fingers
To squeeze. To smell, to lick, to bite.
I need to feel the bloom of petals under
My hand like sunstars -- that sticky
Hot mucous that burns fingers.