Girl, your silver-tipped prose
was going to haemorrhage me
word circus turned me to clown
In octagon of mirrors in the gallery cafe
where lipstick palimpsest on coffee cups
colour rouge all the shades of desire,
I viewed her nipples from eight different angles
through the ‘God?’ emblazoned on her thin t-shirt,
reflected to crack’d promises
who dared walk on broken ice?
China plate of her shoulder blades
fine boned and fragile,
could have carried her home in a briefcase
origami folded like two paper swans fucking
Her legs stretched from floor to ceiling
what lay between her thighs was a Rubik’s cube
from yellow to white, colour blindness turned northeast
and her green eyes twisted into mine
In the way knife wounds work
diamond glints to skin’s surface,
the waiting room became morgue
and yes, corpses still talk
Touch of my tongue in her
wetlands was never enough,
pray tell, dearest one,
are you still waiting too?
That was never enough? Very descriptive. Makes me wonder what would be enough. Nice piece
thanks fia