I.
the scent of aged olive oil
seeps from our blossoming
early morning pores
as we perch slackjawed
over a mock marble counter
in a geriatric mecca,
a graying diner,
where opposite us
packs of old men hunch over
their eggs and turkey soups
hooting over politics,
grunting over war strategies,
not talking to anyone in particular, not
even to each other,
but exercising ashen throat muscles
that are otherwise dormant
back in their stale smelling homes.
holiday and i spent the night
much like them,
hooting and grunting
over european boys
and overflowing closets
of girl shit,
both poetry worn,
carpal tunnel cursed.
II.
once i sat in packs
around a curved
plastic wood coated
never changed (it's from the 70s)
bar that once housed tired
old irishmen but now cradled me
and (the goons of) mine.
i returned home in those vodka
glazed day dreams:
burning eyes,
so worn and ready to sleep
upon toilet seat rim
seasoned by dimpled asses
until i'm pulled from
my pious position
and half pushed/half pulled home
to a spinning room
and a still ceiling fan.
III.
her desk was made of particle
board, but it looked much more
expensive with my cupped ivory ass
bouncing up and off
of it,
those nimble freckled fingers
bounding between nipples,
mouth, and clit...
i told him to fuck me,
fuck me, fuck me harder,
and he tried
as much as his narrow
irish hips could thrive
until he was drained
and soon reached for the push end
of insulin needle.
No comments:
Post a Comment