February 29, 2016

sneaking sauce in a hip flask...


photo by aprokavics via flickr ©



this thought of her 
(with a nightcap under low light by a lone window)


ribbon-ing erstwhile(s), she's a doorway waiting 
I come up behind her 
unfastening her dress 
it was a fine fabric with
big white smooth
buttons, embroidered 
slots to fit them
in and out of 
she leans 
I lean 
we preen to an almost 
falling completely inside 
each other, a now 
stuffed mostly with lips, neck,  
light, shoulder and the other sides 
of wanted and a perception 
of being bitten bridle 
and spit lingering 
with dug hands sliding into
every little sway thrown away 
while riding first knowing ridden

EJR © 

11 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Sometimes poem says you have to go less abstract to distill potent contact in the right time lapsed synapse language...

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  2. Every line break carries additional meaning, like the "lean" lines that also talk about starvation.

    "a now"s disappear so quickly as moments are blurred and unclarified, which an unabstract poem has the power to do to an abstract brain drinking coconut juice during hospital visiting hours --- which always end too soon, or not soon enough, depending on how scared you are of hospitals.

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    Replies
    1. west of eden nodding in the doorway with hourglass cinch waist and the legs of a table I'm able this first day of meteorological spring to take my belly button lint and make eggs with it...I must be ovulating...or a mad hatter to be...

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    2. Now that, I can understand completely.

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    3. This comment has been removed by the author.

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    4. just us burning down the mission...

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  3. So much said in the tense switching. Tense switching. Sense twitching. Incense witching, kindled wishes for more scores of cored-dandelion fluff.

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    Replies
    1. so I wrote

      hat on cot tin
      roof and the sin
      of ever loving rain

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    2. Even there, ever could mean always, or it could imply that you can't believe you ever did. Poetry should absolutely be baffling and contra-dictory, which is why what you do is magic.

      Thank you, for every little nugget or phat bone you throw at me to gnaw on.

      You are the coolest, poet.

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    3. and sometimes I don't know what holiday it is supposed to be...

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