The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

.It Was Just A Poke.

Lovers folding, heartbeats fluttering like a flock of a thousand sparrows.
Toes twitch as static lips finger the fine lines between staccato kisses.
I make you try, diamond hard, for me, a meek kitten, as I roar from one too many
Licks. Come, run your change of hips by me, swinging from cold to hot so easily,
you stupid ape. Draw me like a magnetic ace, the winning card you
Pretend you don’t want. Fill me, yet another hole, as if I wasn’t gaping
enough. I have my own spade, thank you.

A simple pout pulls the upper hand but
I’m laden, and you are no gentleman, and there is no concierge for this.
Lord I would love to club that silly smirk off your dick.

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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.