What I wanted to write
Was a song
Red lady, two hands,
Stringy like tobacco
Ribs licked hot to the bone
Cool, teacher, cool
Boss lady
Sturdy bitch
Deaf like a beat up drum
But I ended up with a trip
A ride, at a crossroads
With a washed out basin and a high wire girl
Sweet Southern streets
Dank heels
Trolling on a Friday night
Angel’s all like never let me go
Little black dress shaken, not stirred
Grabbed by the ankles
Bring your mouth over here
And lick me up, buttercup
In an alley off Church, dark like an eyelid
I hung back
Waiting for a man to tip his hat
A man to sip my vodka
To thumb my olive
And pull my wild hair
To shoot my breasts and lick my thighs
And work me up like a melting Virgin
Stuck on a rod like a sunbeam
Give me the curse and the throb
And let me make my penance in the morning
I don’t sugar my tea, and I’m not dainty on Sundays
I hang from the night like a queen,
swinging like a chimpanzee from the one on the front of the house
To the two and three and four of the street sign
A shooting star, a trapeze artist, a Jill on the hill, catch me if you can
I bleed ink
And my soul’s just as dry
Absolutely Fabulous writing! I wanted to run out and buy a pair of fish net stockings
And stilettos and join in! But it is your party! There are so many fantastic lines in your poetry piece! Bravo!
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Haha! Thank you! I’m so glad you enjoyed it.
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Perfection. Quite brilliant in fact, it flows perfectly, structure is amazing, sheer poetry.
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Thank you very much!
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You’re an amazing poet. More power to you, you have a wonderful style and voice.
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Thank you. I often think I should write poetry more. You have encouraged me to do so.
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The best decision you’ll probably have to make in your used life
Have a nice weekend! 🙂
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You, too. 😊
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This is very good.
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Thank you!
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Wow! Fantastic! 🙂
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Thank you! It was fun. I am writing another as we speak…😬
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Waiting here, eager to view the after verse.
Is he anticipating literary intercourse?
High wire girl, I believe she writ.
A Bird like Millman just might fit
– without seeming too perverse.
There is no Church in this old bucolic town.
We’re stuck with Main when we wanna get around.
We’ve got our old washed-up toothless hags,
and leathery, wrinkled old saddlebags
– can’t be too choosy when you’re down.
Not the best, when pushing Pen and Ink.
The added intoxicants make it hard to think.
Is this a Limerick, poem, or just a bad rhyme?
I’ll try to figure it out, another time.
– when I’m finished with my drink.
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Ha! I love it! Cheers, my friend! 😋
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