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deepundergroundpoetry.com
Waiting for My Breath to Die
On the couch or on the bed, you say.
Soft black curls like Satan's cherub.
The beauty that springs
from between your legs.
I need any contact.
You pull my red hair out from the roots,
I hear it detach,
it is pleasure.
Moving inside what I use
to take in air, pushing my head down
as long as possible. I drown
in the verdant sea of your cologne,
Poseidon thrusts his wet-scaly arm
down my windpipe. My head is
a heavy shell sinking to the ocean floor
as things in and out of me go purple.
But I am a fish that makes a racket,
I toss and flail, arms fluttering like wings.
Mucus and blood a music that stains
the gold band of your ring.
You give me a dollar in quarters
for the bus four streets down.
Tonight I wait for you to call.
Hoping for anything from you.
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