The Delivery Person Never Knocks Twice
Sweet, sweet, so tender and true. You and I should do a duet. Mix your smiles in with the dark of a new night and add a little black coffee and jim beam. Bittersweet is what we would spawn and as long as the television never gets a hold of our secret words, we won't scare too many helpless civilians. PS, the feds are listening in.
When I light up too much Vitamin C, the dreams come out. They force me to remember all the vivid details like the color of your hair and the scent between your thighs. Women smell of faint traces of urine and the taste is of salt, but the auto-erotic pleasures that swim in the air take a good grasp and it quickly becomes all that matters. After that, anything tastes and smells of rose hips and wine. And within all the little and big and base particulars that one could carry as baggage, it's always the way that a woman will react when I'm down in the trenches that gets stashed in my memory. Legs wide with soft moans and loud lion roars. Subtle rolling of the torso versus Venus and the way she kicks up a tidal wave. Light pats on the head or a fingering motion along my hair. Or all out sharp fingernails digging into my back flesh and making it hurt. This is the ticket. The window-sill and the curtains. The wind outside. Blowing the world toward us. Making me think we might even be pure. But the trees have the tendency to do that, causing us to forget ourselves and look beneath the soil. Something is lurking, but I don't know what it is.
God, I know I am carrying and I know you know it too. Something secret and wild that could set the world on fire, but it has nothing to do with words. Nonetheless, let's combine the basket of flowers that we each possess and to hell with the rest. In this hotel motel madness in another smog lit city where babies cry and mothers die in the heart of Tom Wait's Saturday night moaning and groaning.
I thought we could compose something beautiful like verse and song and sight and sound and the color of your blood on the walls. So what's with this lurking suspicion that I have that there is more than meets the eye as you begin to convulse in the bathroom? I hear you riding on to glory as the carpet stains crimson and the pipes begin to fill with the hollow echo of trickling you. And as the world begins to come to an end, there is a knock at the door. But I didn't order any pizza.
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