I’m a swayable whore
side to side
I go vacillating
sidling up to sweet nothing
homeless cat
on rotting fish
Opportune and indiscreet
side to side
I go deviating
catching something
in the gutter
hoping something
catches me
Superpower: inside is outside girl.
Clever and playful wordsmith for exchange of written, sexually charged, vernacular tomfoolery during work hours and/or late nights. Your thinly-veiled confession gets mine.
She likes putting things between her lips
Like bottle caps and pen tops and cocks
But mostly smoke
Because sometimes breathing fresh and clear
is just too hard
She likes cupcakes and twizzlers and pussy juice
But mostly smoke
Because sometimes eraser heads on pencils
just taste like rubber sweat
She likes cigarettes and apple sauce and nails
But mostly skin
to munch on, while staring blankly
Like a baby that mistakes your elbow for a teething ring
I am the spent host of a lavish party. None of the guests can spell my name. Everything sparkles. I feel inclined to drink the champagne. It’s cheap. I scrunch my nose. Glitter powder hides my distaste. Next to you, I’m eighty-five and knackered. I’m your sour tongue taste after a long, hard day. You propose a toast to the idea of me. I propose a shot and reach for another. You place two before me and I nod and smile. We get shit-faced before long. I have a headache. Everything shines like new. I feel inclined to touch something. It dodges me. Smartly chosen footwear hides my distaste. Next to you, I am three-year old worn panties. The revellers, they nod and smile.
Who is it that fills this space with noise, when no one else can see? All these special fuckers with something to say and you, armed with sugar-free gum, a wireless mouse, 47 minutes of free time exactly, and a brain filter the size and feel of that mahogany writing desk where I carved Fuck you, dad! - lovingly illustrated and with sterling punctuation.
All to be heard, and there’s no denying some are louder than others. And you there - in the far corner, by the escalator: what’s your deal? Rustle me up some of that good old life heartbeat and I’ll burst a vein and fellate you for the intimacy.
Talk to me, because I’ve forgotten how to be solid and still and I’m a mass of writhing tongues, pounding chests and even a handful of butterflies. Canary-yellow-butter-flies, fluttering sweetly in the acrid depths of my putrid bowel.
It’ll be so much fun!
For weeks, this idea in my head. Big strong guy, light features, white shirt; he leans over a girl, a brunette. Places a large hand on the crook of her neck and it nearly covers her shoulder to ear. Soft he pulls her to him, she willing. They kiss. Surprised and pleased by her ready compliance, his hand releases her mid-kiss and lingers there, in the air next to her ear. Like a magician, savouring a magic trick, an internal ta-da. This idea - this scene - in my head for weeks, but I couldn’t recall where I’d seen, which movie, what video, whose website burrowed so deep. Twisting and turning I then remembered, oh, yes. The girl was me. And the kiss was that kiss. That same one. Revealing different facets of that same kiss, like a buzzard circling a brilliant cut diamond, turning it over and over in my mind.
Ethically unencumbered editor seeks sexual favours in exchange for publishing shite poems in respected independent literary journal (experimental, but not genre-specific; elite, but not elitist; avant garde and other cool sounding, meaningless adjectives).