How you compose me, drunk.
I am the last poem of vodka
& you dance slowly to yourself.
Like a girl who’d steal a motor-
cycle, you undress. Blisters &
rouge. How as I kiss you
a feather of blood breaks
out on your neck. Hunger or
cure? Your cat crawls between
us, soft muzzle of nonchalance.
How each morning, thinking of
an old poem, you remember.
Yes, you remember & the room
takes on the attitude of milk
boiling in the sun.
Blisters & Milk
Filed under poetry
yeah, like it. some splendido lines…always like it when you’re writing in different styles, too. does us all good as writers, no? you’re very good at endings. you know their importance, yes, it’s true. married life — so far, so good…so good, so far…
yeah, always try to nail the ending, and keep it tight all the way through. married life… so good!
A sensory smorgasbord! I like this one a lot.
Thanks Gabrielle,
This is sublime. The first reading I took in your enjambments. The second reading is still echoing in my head. Every single line is a classic, but especially ‘like a girl who’d steal a motorcycle, you undress’. This has leapt straight to the top of poetry charts.
Thanks Mark! That’s some high praise.