lustgarden whore

 
this is our sky, the sky of perpetual clouds. the storm rides in,
nefarious; avenging angels on tangle-haired, obsidian horses,
galloping to rip the tarred streets to mud. & we know the wind
is a woman by the way she blows.

is it the rain, I wonder, that brings our madness?...

she offers herself, in return for something I’m not capable of.
she wants what a woman wants  –  to be loved. but who could
love a whore like her?

‘why do you show me the savage grace of your nakedness,’ I
ask. ‘you don’t even cover your ermine cove with a sash.’

she pouts, in that petulant way. ‘you don’t need to investigate a
thesaurus to find a pretty name for it, or study Shakespearean
tragedies to learn the seductions of Juliet or Ophelia. I don’t
hide in plain sight. I want you to want me.’

she gives what is in her heart to give, & I paint her in desolate
colors: red that is too deep for her lips, mascara that melts into
sorrow’s tears.

she wears dark outfits that reflect the unlovely shadows she carries,
but I imagine her in the fashions of gutter elegance. a slit skirt,
stilettos & net stockings; a silk blouse that retreats from bare shoulders,
to reveal tits uplifted by a pink bra. a beret the shade of cadmium green.
she’s tall & a harlot, let no man wonder.

so the rains come & render us captives, with only passion’s roaring flames
to usurp the rude minutes. there is every woman in her, who desires her
flesh beaten, not to excuse her sins, but to ignite them.

she is languorous, kissing the bedsheet, & I wail on her sublime ass till
she weeps & I am weaponed for the invasion of her shameful citadel.
her moans are clarion to my rapture. she wants me to withdraw/she
wants me to stay. she wants me to ram her harder & deeper…

when I can’t hold back, I pull out. she’s a whore, after all: the alluvials
of my contemptible eruption explode on her hair, her cheeks, her lips.
she succumbs, euphoric, to the thick, warm glaze on her face,
and she knows I’ve made her beautiful…


(Art: Milu Baba Yaga)