The Burning Martini…
Fingers curl a stinger
of scorpius cherry nail-polish
and rumors loud as they laugh
private in corner seats voices to gain
precedence over words, eventually.
Intelligent twists in shakes
of martinis and napkin stains
of prolonged drool drops. Stop mid-sentence.
Eye blue upon eye green
blotting lipstick from red to pink
dab the blush hush. I hear nothing.
The moving lips the open lap
1.3 degrees across her spandex in delicate overlap
that pivot of her line she walks in stunted heels
a spinning platform if only you could cross...
I order a bourbon, raging hot
and some lobster for texture
Spoons clash with glass so often
like marriages that crash so often
Forks lancing through flesh
and darting tongues through souls
Teflon they banned not her cling-wrap.
Jealousy strikes right around midnight
A black smoke rises to these eyes
and I drip alone the forked road
of mixed feelings and chocolate fetish
(a cold room melting 82% black)
All I see and hear
is her or is it him?
A raw serpent on potter's wheel?
Wish this head shrunk-wrapped inside
a matchbox frame and set itself
on fire a prayer. (So often).
A brick tucked between my legs
that wedding song that freed itself
from depths of gut and garter sings
Moaning under the cubes its reflection speaks
to the face on that spoon that enters his tongue
while she stirs a vortex
mad in my drink… |