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Image for the poem lie to me, baby

lie to me, baby



‘A man’s face is his autobiography,
a woman’s face is her work of fiction.’ Oscar Wilde

paint yourself, Darlin’; paint yourself pretty.
gloss your lips ruby red. shadow your eyes, write deep
lusty lines beneath them in penciled arrogance. tubes
& compacts that change a polaroid ragdoll into a
bombshell. stolen glamour, sinful & unreal.

she knows how to soothe a restless man, with her harlot
whispers. ‘you’re the only lover I need,’ she tells me. sure.
except for the butcher, the baker, & the guy who lubes her
chassis…

I tell myself I’m through with her, finished. but come Friday
night I’m back in the Blue Moon ballroom watching her spin
on the dance floor, in the center of a snakepit. elliptical eyes
hi-jacking her come-on like she was Salome’, naked & so, so
begging for it.

in my Buick ragtop, parked by the bay, starlight bounces off the
indigo waters right into her Aphrodite eyes. she abducts the savage
spirit from me by the hex of her vicious kiss, & my heart gladly
joins the others, still trembling in her trophy case.

when I’m alone with my whiskey, the mirror calls me a coward.
her smooth taunts echo in my dreams, & her betrayal wears a
veil of cloistered seduction, even in the crystal mansions of poetry.

hell, it’s my own fault.
I can’t live without the lies…



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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