Sunday Afternoon

(the bop)      
formule poésie érotique 22/30        
     
Peel back the rayon’s gracious hungry cling      
In Sunset’s ocean night, that gooses ‘round      
A catch of Whiskey - L.A. woman sings      
In myths of highways’ pulse, in Echo’s sound.      
How sweetened spikes the poet’s ramble brings,      
And seven mile snakes, their prophet found.      
     
“L.A. woman, Sunday afternoon…"      
     
The tales of Lizard Kings, and Momma’s Pops      
That burn in acid rain these Angel Dreams:      
Downtown to Cucamonga whistle stops,      
Topanga down to Malibu, tires scream.      
In backdrops just as real as movie sets,      
like painted faces smeared on glowing screens,      
The lines I read, exposed with no regret,      
Her short form calm found in these peep show scenes.      
     
“L.A. woman, Sunday afternoon…”      
     
Her licks with Muse’s tongue our world's begun,      
Her softest kiss from Andalus’an sun.      
With stroking touch to press the weight of words,      
Her pleasure squeals with our shared verse unheard,      
On lover’s sheets we show our parts attune,      
How she can get me there “just not too soon…”      
     
“L.A. woman, Sunday afternoon…”      
     
😇/😈