You pump me like a pulmonary vein
you drill me like a military campaign
you blow me like a weather vane in a hurricane
you plow me as if i'm your last germinating grain
but then you get too busy like a interstate lane
you lie to me like an advertising campaign
you sometimes feel like acid rain with the mark of Cain
your temper, it's like a sudden sprain and feels like a face full of butane
you confuse my visceral brain like it's drunk on champagne
you send my mind, body, and soul into a nervous strain
you detain my wrists like a watch chain laced with cocaine
your evil glare resembles a cocky Great Dane...
then you apologize and it feels like i'm floating on waves of mary jane
and you say things to me like, "Your image, graven on my heart" by Mark Twain
and that "You will always maintain control of my left AND right brain"
ahhhhhh, i feel a tickle in my body when you say, "Your eyes make me insane"
then i feel like you've whisked me away on a jet plane to a castle in Spain
like you're the king and i'm the queen of your pleasure domain
and then you say, "My love remains for you like a freight train."
i cringe, because then i know the morning is close and the cycle is about to repeat again.



hah.

Something abstract. Blue ribbons rippling, they’re bleeding into the right margin. Sip another sip of Merlot. Golden Years, Bowie. Don’t let me hear life’s taking you nowhere - Angel………….There’s my baby lost her soul………………….Walk tall act fine. Golden Years. Run for the shadows in these Golden Years. I’ll stick with you baby for a thousand years……Nothing’s going to touch you in these golden years. Golden.

That’s Bowie for you - Classic.

Don’t let me hear life is takin’ you nowhere…………………………………

OK. Then there’s Bowie’s “Gasoline”. That’s another story.

Knots……bound. Bound. Together.

Everyone yearning to be together with someone, somehow.

Pain makes a man think things over. Well woman. Think things over. A lot of things.

Retrospective. Me years ago. That was me, years ago. Skinny. I’m now rounded in a sensual way. A child changes your sharp edges, makes you soft and lush. Hardens your heart inside. Soft and lushious outside. Hard inside. I’m not a soft center anymore. I’m a Fantale with the story written all over my outside. Something not swallowed, but taken piece by piece, chewed meticulously and mindfully. Not with reverence. Just alertness.

I’m waiting to be devoured. Like a luscious chocolate. Devoured.

The vodka bottle sits open on her dresser
half empty,
half dead.
The setting sun reflects off the smooth glass,
creating a prism of rainbow light.
It could almost be beautiful,

almost be perfect, if you don't stare too hard,

don't get too close.
No one would ever know
that the stale smell of liquor was always so thick
it seemed to seep through the paint in the walls.
No one would ever know that empty bottles
happened often around here,
as if they grew from the weeds in the yard.
And no one would ever know
how often her lips kissed those bottles
in a romance all their own.