Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The octopus

All the ways I submitted to her.
All the women sit in a row. Nobody wears a wedding ring.
They silently seduce me in the coffee shop.
Their secret fantasies rise out of them. Something like the perfume of their hair carried on the air to me, but more honest. It leaks from their hands. The way she holds a small object, the length of her fingers. How hungry are they to feel, to touch? How far will she let them explore? Like a blind man because the eyes are inferior.
The one with the longest fingers does not look up from her computer. Her fingers always touching the keys. She can't help it, her fingers tips love them.
Next she plays with her hair. She takes a locke, and peeling away a single hair at a time, she gets down to her favorite. Starting near the root, she pulls it through her pinched fingers. She knows exactly the force it takes to tear it from its root. She is expert at this. The follicle is quite happy to be brought to the edge of tearing and back again.
Her serene face, her stately and kissable neck but a distraction from her pleasure seeking, self absorbed soul. A photograph of which would look like an octopus. Her greedy tentacles shoot out to catch morsels of a man's love floating down. In the instant the picture is taken, she is frozen, her startled eye set on you, embarrassed at being caught red handed.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

A girl has many layers.

There is the layer of outer clothing. It repels cold and other outside forces. It is what she thinks you see when you look at her. It is the image that she perpetuates.

Manage to strip away this and there are her undergarments. Very pretty but very utilitarian. They provide a silky smooth layer between her delicate skin and her outer clothing and they keep her parts together.

Standing there in her bra and panties, she looks quite vulnerable. It's arresting, really. But there is a thread of pretense running through it all in the squeezing and pushing properties of her bra and in the lasie cloth of her underwear.

Unfasten the simple mechanism of her bra. Do not dally if it does not immediately come loose, some force may be applied, it is not as delicate as it looks. Taking off her underwear is simply a matter of pulling them down, but the elastic band may be tight, and if you have to tear them, so be it.

Look at the uglyness.

She may not be able to look you in the eye. She must be reminded of why she arches her back now, the real reason she was born with a tongue. It doesn't take much, but remember that the story of her outer layer is over now and that of her true self is beginning.

There is only the matter of her skin now, its saltiness and the taste and smell of certain regens. It doesn't all taste like it should. The acquired taste for women's flesh is the difference between a boy and his father.

You may get used to walking down the street with that bravado that playing a part in her story allows you. You may not remember being any other type of man except the kind that she fantasizes about peeling back her layers. Do not let yourself get used to it. Your trusted partner in depravity may suddenly turn to you, and with tears in her eyes, insist that you stop also loving Denise. In return to your cool response, she may strike your face. She may growl like a beast. She will hate you in that moment. Who knew that when you made love, you were really cultivatig hate?

Do not waste any time.

At the next red light, let her out of the car.

Take solace in the construction worker's steady hammer. See his muscular fore arms, see his simple ambition to avoid the sun.

Take solace in the clergy toiling in the church. Their funny habits. Their earnest prayers.

A girl has many layers.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

My cold atheist heart. But don't you see the simple joys of flowers. A flower in my hand like the desperate hope of a woman in naked submission. The heart-breaking pretentions of the pretty grass and everything else like it. What it wants from me. The call goes unanswered in my cold heart.

My new car sparkling in the street. The essence of German engineering shining there in your window. The feeling of taking a corner in my new car. Makes me say yes. My license plate was made by hard criminals in prison. Their lives out of jail filled with the sonofabitch regrets of a Johnny Cash man. The unforgivabilities on their face that informed their art, evidence of the spoils of my profession.

This atheist heart of mine. Oh, I don't suppose I'll ever be forgiven. The cherubs at my feet speak the truth. Their poor old souls boiling with the same old frustration. Their high whiny voices belie the timeless feminine truth. Do you think when I die the Earth accepts my body like the body of any other? What will it think as it holds my heart in the instruments of its will? My license plate was made by hard criminals in prison.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

We pass the day in the cafe.
The beautiful girl keeps the words coming.
She keeps the kisses coming,
She entertains her man.

She will look around in times of boredom
And notice this boy and that
And pass her gaze on to me,
Who will pass it to another.

We pass the days in just such games
Of give and take but never keep.
Even the old man in the corner takes part.
He takes my gaze out the window to the street

In seeming boredom, but really
In unceasing self loathing.
He will take his leave of us,
Withdraw himself from the place

Of the retired and unemployed,
And taking his loathing to the street,
He will close his eyes and remember
The sweet embrace of his dead wife.

It's what keeps him going.
But tomorrow he'll return
To the place where couples go
To be seen to snicker and smile

At the secrets they share,
The secrets they wish to never give away,
Or else come back to the cafe
In old age and realize the pain
Of passing days alone.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

The chocolate neighborhood watch canvases the streets.
Your misses lounges on the couch. She thinks of firemen.
You sorry fool.