my hands shook the day it started, and they shook the day it ended..
liquor brings you out of me
in vibrant streams spit
from crooked lips,
a half-decade of recovered
fetid verse fouls
the too-sweet tooth staining
anesthetic,
now secondary to thumb flicked
warmth,
but still i call to a bottle
now and then
to kiss cold lips
that kiss back
and sate a
quivering belly, while
you snake back into fantasy,
a misrepresentation of
"healthy courting,"
hidden behind your dreadnaught
curtain,
touched only when eyes go astray
or in evening
when the contours of hips,
ass, and thighs
fade with the lights--
no man will ever possess
enough armor
to calm an overactive
imagination,
for he will always roam
and pursue more syrupy
girls,
and you, brilliant
and cardinal,
knew what fruits
were to be tasted.
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