little playbook doll. you cursive curl. your honeydew salt. and fragrance of the night flesh. lingers on my tongue. a guzzling spray of melting saliva. dripping in a cave of the erotic checker. a finger tattoo of cruddy nail polish. and imitation rose. the lady at the bar. nestled in white. pregnant. and swollen. under the whir of a ceiling fan. rotating. in a magical symphony of electricity. and air. a stale green air from the coffee flames. a pube in pink. a probable italian. their fingers clasped. their lips caressed. her nipples raised. through the chiffon patisserie. the mustard on her hair. and sapphire eye balls. stare at the wall. it reads. patience. faith. les apiritifs et la mauresque. gitane in the jane. overlooking the waves of the twin city tinkle. the dangling lights nod in shame. at the hiss of a thousand silhouettes. of ballet leaves. semi-perched on cobbled walks. and artificial lash. dolled with tar and pastel pepper. black and gray and maniacal. frayed at the edges of a generous crochet. of golden pints and silver shoes. an etiquette of grains. we clink and toast. and smoothly tan. a silken crust of explicit overhaul. of berry charm and harmonica. a candle flick. a charming grope. and the swivel pops across the dark. dank. silhouette. of two collapsing bodies. in perfect harmony. wine and plastic. iron on a boat. in a trilogy of spiral dignity. man to man. man to woman. woman to woman. man-woman.
on your neck. he wore a lace bead. and dangling shoes. and a key. made of orange feather. you said. irene died in a pool. you ripped a plume. and glued to your flesh. the misery of death skidding on your chest. you couldn't bear. and so you went to the lake. and with your soul. you lit a flame. canopied shut. ladled with milk. you came in the wave. sperms afloat. it feels my cells. this proximity of fluid love. you could never feel on the pedestal of the intangible. little playbook doll. your color of rouge. the mascaraed breast. the pierced vagina. fold like paper. in a category of death you can never fill. a track of tunes. on your hair line. tattooed. you would say, music in my hair. my narcissism drapes. this is the symbol of injury.
you village girl. so sassy in sweat. the crimson gerbera atop your ear. so beautiful in the sunday breeze. by the piano-man and the swan lake. your gait, like soap. you bubble your love. and smile at the grass. where a saxophone sits. the brass. the rasp. the wooden deck. converge on the wrist of your violent corset. it is peach. and ribbed. and through the frame, i see your heart. dancing in the breeze. smiling at your eye. so light, like smoke. in a brilliant mosaic. a wild menagerie of beats and swirls. it twirls and twirls. and swings like pearls. and beats and breathes. and lives and sings. songs of life and songs of love. free from your breath. free from the strings of beating synchrony. free from the rivet of the jugular moons. the perpetual rhyme. the chime of the lisps. the lips of the garb. the cloak of physics. and dances in the wind. again and repeat. i love your mane. your childless womb. my strings are dead. the odor of liberty binds your tale. you libertine tongue. you rogue of peace. i am free. i am free. like cotton in space. in perfect vacuum. spotless. immobile. silent.
the married man. holds his hands. knotted bands. he married his self. in mind and soul. he is his. and his alone. winged man of the piers. little playbook doll. let me sketch your nails. and paint them white. for yours is the peace i seek.
on your neck. he wore a lace bead. and dangling shoes. and a key. made of orange feather. you said. irene died in a pool. you ripped a plume. and glued to your flesh. the misery of death skidding on your chest. you couldn't bear. and so you went to the lake. and with your soul. you lit a flame. canopied shut. ladled with milk. you came in the wave. sperms afloat. it feels my cells. this proximity of fluid love. you could never feel on the pedestal of the intangible. little playbook doll. your color of rouge. the mascaraed breast. the pierced vagina. fold like paper. in a category of death you can never fill. a track of tunes. on your hair line. tattooed. you would say, music in my hair. my narcissism drapes. this is the symbol of injury.
you village girl. so sassy in sweat. the crimson gerbera atop your ear. so beautiful in the sunday breeze. by the piano-man and the swan lake. your gait, like soap. you bubble your love. and smile at the grass. where a saxophone sits. the brass. the rasp. the wooden deck. converge on the wrist of your violent corset. it is peach. and ribbed. and through the frame, i see your heart. dancing in the breeze. smiling at your eye. so light, like smoke. in a brilliant mosaic. a wild menagerie of beats and swirls. it twirls and twirls. and swings like pearls. and beats and breathes. and lives and sings. songs of life and songs of love. free from your breath. free from the strings of beating synchrony. free from the rivet of the jugular moons. the perpetual rhyme. the chime of the lisps. the lips of the garb. the cloak of physics. and dances in the wind. again and repeat. i love your mane. your childless womb. my strings are dead. the odor of liberty binds your tale. you libertine tongue. you rogue of peace. i am free. i am free. like cotton in space. in perfect vacuum. spotless. immobile. silent.
the married man. holds his hands. knotted bands. he married his self. in mind and soul. he is his. and his alone. winged man of the piers. little playbook doll. let me sketch your nails. and paint them white. for yours is the peace i seek.
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