I know I recite too quickly
but have a look between the covers
at our special women’s section
we have aardvarks and mars bars
and ativan and percodan and
perky cans (of course) but you’ve
no need to look there
you’re special, I mean
I think you’re really something
stop pawing me up and down now
I don’t give a fuck if you’re Italian
just keep your eyes peeled
for that secret move
watch it: I can poke
just like you
I’m somebody’s fun-time girl
Somebody’s knick-knack
Somebody’s cake
Hi, I’m the boss’s girlfriend
I’m curved like the inside of a bowl looking outwards
I’m hanging on a rack
Laden with ornaments
A pussy float for rotting garb
Pleased to meet you, my style
Inside I’m tepid like a runny Sunday
Ever present in glossy tint
I am a steel spike glinting
I feel like I want to know something about you, to know what is about you, your limbs, but it’s really more subtle than that, this something. To know what it’s like you in me. Perhaps because you’re the first to show me some kindness, some kind of. And me, I am very compassionate. I see those things, behind your face, I talk and when I say things, I try to make them real things, and I don’t think about them too much, I spill them from my gut, lay them before you and think you’re smart enough to pick through.
I like it when to see you watching me, the things I do, the odd things and normal things, but in my way I do them and to know that you notice, you see that I see. But it’s so much more subtle than that, even all this description gives it more weight than usually it has. In truth, it’s not a spellbinding, or lightning or love, or a hundred other fifty carefully selected words. In truth, it’s nothing, less than nothing, a minute of someone’s forty-two minutes, a minutiae, a dead pet, a lost friend, a split-end, etc. Something everybody has, sort of knows, but doesn’t pay its due attention. Maybe love is just extended curiosity, desire just a question, a need to know. But what happens when the questions are answered is that the reason for divorce.
When you hear it crinkle, walk down the road with a face like a summer moon. Stop and look right before crossing the street. Let the waft of strangers’ scent intrude you. Inhale last night’s rabid sex and curry to remind you that the second person isn’t so bad, you. They are crinkle-cracked and slain, but so you are. A handful of hurts like a monsoon of petals: say hello to them, say no to them: wrap you up in clear plastic and you say a prayer for lust. When you hear the double-headed helix, over-dramatize. Make noises with your mouth, suck-pumping out the air.