dance we lonely
love is a temptress who paints her face in seductive colors
that could easily melt into black liquid sorrow.
a woman crosses trails with me & we make with cerebral
discussions of poetry & Latin phrases like we’re trying to be
cool, but it always leads to sex.
I get this mellow kinda brooding blues when I listen to the
inconsolable beats of Flykkiller.
‘never wanted to fall in love with you,’ she says. it would’ve
made her tango strictly ballroom.
she wonders how much of that particular fire I’ve got in me.
not as much as Hemingway when he inhaled 12-gauge
eliminators. or Van Gogh, who scalpeled off minor parts
of his artistry.
I tell her I can’t have sex with a woman unless I call her a whore,
& she’s okay with that. my past clings to me like a street girl
shoving a stickpin into my khakis right by the brass zipper.
somewhere there are French kisses & a girl who moans my
name all through the tears & the orgasms & there is a story
that will never be told somewhere. it’s the back room of
my wayward desires.
I follow the wet solace of the rain & the midnight train in the
poetry she writes, & sometimes there is so much loneliness
in a cup of coffee.
I hate that I need her to hold me tight,
as if I will fade into a poem when she lets me go…
(Art: Marcel Amson)