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Click hereat the stoplight
he puzzles over me
fumbling with the pieces
unsure of which box I go in;
he's thinking,
"there's a dyke I'd like to fuck"
And yeah,
I'll give him that, he'd be all
pistons and firecrackers—but
there's always that chance,
underneath Puma and plumage,
he still wets the bed.
But that's not what this poem is about.
It's about you,
purple haired revelation,
with calf muscles that make
my hands itch
for a pen
I want to read the Braille of your body,
eyes hushed shut,
traveling
lyric poetry of your spine, tongue
stretched
in offering
let me wander
through landscapes of gooseflesh
raw lips
singing songs of chewed nails,
tangled bed sheets
and after I have learned you, I want
to rewrite you
in humid breath upon
shivering
tissue paper, chapters sprawled
in the in-betweens of fingers
suddenly, he knows
he's not the sun
in our orbit
trapping hands
pulling your gaze from my
hips and thighs
mumbling sandpaper Catalan
about foreign lesbians
and large breasted bullies
while revving the moped
but, truth be told,
he's just pouting because
he knows
if Barcelona wasn't so damn hot
I'd have worn my leather jacket
which would have you
liquid
slipping and sliding
off that bike seat
and onto my cowboy boots
please say you have a book out there, i'd loooove to be able to include these on my bookshelves!