Don't Play With Fire, Unless You Can Handle Getting Burned

You know, she starts – I think,
     I was dreaming on her lips,
     cappuccino and dime store chapstick –
You don’t always need to be so…
               tantric,
She sits back from my latest piece – I sense her
     laying back…
mmm she’d melt in Egyptian Cotton.

You know, I say – I don’t know
     what she’s thinking on, she looks to me
          as if
                a window –
Lust is a four letter word
     (and I’m fond of fuck.)

Well…, she sips his habit, jars,
     too cold.
        It burned her. I think,
(I swear I’ve never seen her eyes before.
Why doesn’t anyone ever write
about the deepest brown?)
Your meters off a bit here, she points
     with the ash of her nicotine.  Normally,
     here she’d drag it.
Like this, she’s like a beatnik.     Then,
      She exudes it, always, as if adding sugar.

Yea, I say, you’re probably right – she’s right,
     she’s always right –
I’m never good with beats…

But.   I know something
         about rhythm.

Posted by: hitokiriyuki at May 30, 2005 00:22 | link | comments
poetry