her livid eyes

 
like Clifton Webb said in Laura, ‘know what he calls women?
dames & dolls.’

how else would I sing their virtues? they come in two distinct charades:
regular & dirty or fancy & dirty. I filter out the saccharine lies & the
clichés & radar in on the dirty.

she’s tricky, she’ll string a lover along till it’s thick enough to make a
hemp noose around his neck. she’ll drag him thru sticky makeup &
oleander perfume, French kisses that get him dizzy enough to bump
off her rich husband, then she’s gone with bags full of cash & bearer
bonds, stops to pick up the trumpet player from a decadent Weimar
cabaret.

I fall, too. hold her close, like they do in the old movies, look in her eyes,
blue or gray or livid (which is a sexy thing for eyes to be), music plays in
the distance like the singer is crying, it could be Rebekah wailing Llorando,
& I’m wondering why a dame like her even wants a broken soldier like me,
but I kiss her hard anyway, like I’m trying to rape her mouth.

it leaves her shaking, I can feel it. she’s at the edge of her most violent
desire. what name does she give it when she chases it in the dark?... in
her vast lexicon, there is no word for going away.

she suffers in her sexuality  –  
she calls me mister…


Addendum by Tereska […how is it different… not just lust… something more…
other women… there is nothing left but goodbyes… I fall deeper…]


(Artist unknown)