Love, Love, Love.

Skin-tight with longing, like dangerous girls
still tight to touch but no innocent peach.
The tomatoes reel, drunk
like cinnamon kisses that taste inside the mouth,
divine from the vine.

I am burdened as the sky,
it’s a ceiling that never gets repainted,
clouds upset, buckets pour
sweat onto a face embracing love, wide open.
They varnish onto earth.

This is one way to say it,
to speak without words, one wave.
The girl gone, you left.
I loved you, all over.

And this is another.
I tasted love in places no one else has.
Last year in August I hung
myself on the rope you gave me,
my head between my knees, looked up
and saw you tugging, tighter,
flirting with the atmosphere.
Take the lead, its two to tango,
but you were here,
the sun circled the earth
and the sky had no gravity.

September will fall
on top of us
with twilights metal,
I stroke nipples with nickels,
loose change,
(penny for your thoughts?)
from a pocket. Quicker than
flash Harry you were naked.
An oar can fight water
but I can not fight temptation.
I will look up from my feet
and see the same rope and smile.
We can catch the leaves red handed,
flush faced with hot breath in shells of ears
embracing smoke.
With you I hear the sea.
Long may we drown in it.


3 responses to “Love, Love, Love.

  1. Lord, that is quite something. — What can one say about poetry? One could write an introduction for a collected volume or something, but what can one say about a poem? It’s something we can’t touch. It can only touch us.

    Both this and the Oedipus Remix; lovely stuff.


  2. Well. This is a bastardisation of an original work by Esta Spalding.

    Hope you’re proud of your plagiarist self.

  3. Hope you’re proud of your smugness, you numbnut. This was from a creative writing piece called read between the lines. Not a bastardisation, more of a homage.

    Hope you’re proud of your ignorance to creative writing classes and proud of your brave, tough talk on blogs. Dick.

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