deep to solace

 
what she conceals is no more beautiful than what she shows.

what she shows. where she goes, deep in the folds, to hunt it,
to kill it & bring it forth, the mad rush of passion that she can’t
wait for. it moans & spits from precious swollen lips & the
hideous beauty of it is revealed in the wet spot.

good girl, bad girl. angel or slut. call her what you want, but if she’s
not a whore I’ve never been in her bed.

sometimes you got to bend low. when I order a shot, Tommy the
bartender bends low behind the counter, to grab the bottle nobody else
drinks from. it doesn’t even have a label, we just call it bottom shelf.

our night together is an abstract portrait, cheap as a sidewalk art fair
& exquisite as a Picasso. it’s always the same color, which is blue.

she guides me into the cardinal cloisters of her. I know the length of her
body; I know where she trembles & I know where she’s wet.

when I go, she gives me hard kisses, to mark her territory right there on
my lips. I bear them with me on my passage. I feel their desperate
refrain, & I feel their heartbreak & pain.

…the music of my plaintive serenade is bottom shelf  –
the saddest song is just a woman…


(Art: Josef Breitenbach)