Shaking, marble grey, as the restlessness of having
nothing to itch hits seven years late. Skin is tight,
S t r e t c h e d like a smile
Under hands that are hungry and weak.
There is laughter between my legs
As I reach for something I do not understand.
Morning lips find me, draping like ivy but I
wince, coffee bitter, though I should be
open to this, since it’s been
a while since I’ve had a spoonful of
sugar.
The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
All You Can Think
bed
black cats
body heat
books
bruises
bullshit
coffee
comebacks
constellations
cowboys
dancing
darkness
dick
dream
drunk
eyes
fire
flowers
freak
heartbeats
holes
Hope
kiss
kisses
laughter
lick
lips
Love and Other Ghosts
midnight
mirror mirror
naughty
numbers
on the shelf
outsider
owls
pearls
pedicures
piano
pride
reflection
relfection
secrets
shadow
skies
skin
skull
smile
smoking
sparrows
stars
stones
strangers
strawberries
Stupid Girl
sunglasses
sunsets
Temper Temper
the Blues
the lemon tree
tongue
ugly
velvet
waiting
whistling
wine
winter
wishing
Word Poodles
Le Petit Biographie
- Alexia
- I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.
No comments:
Post a Comment