The gripping of tautness,
Streamlined to mimic, scribe, and play the role of the waitress,
Seductress,
Serpentine and unraveled, openly gated and unabashedly
wide-mouthed, Perched languidly
Amongst my forlorn ladder.
“What are you waiting for”
I had never seen myself in that way.
She choked on it once before,
Ran the bedazzled crook over that menacing tongue, frightened and seething, shameful,
Yet ever so iridescent when it played with the latches on her,
And she descended so quietly under being such an inferiority,
And it must have heated her, bursted at the quick, a sheltered , coal-tasting flame
Which was much prettier in black.
And a coral nuisance that looked a lot like it, but wasn’t nearly
as enticing.
The last time I sought to pack was quite trivial,
Honesty foreboding, strength and the calamitous wisdom,
All screeching and gashes and torn open blouses amid mind-numbing wrecks,
And beseeched carnality amongst my trembling fervor…
For it wasn’t as satisfactory as I had imagined, or perhaps
I now cease to remember.
I had never once looked back twice
At the beckoning ricochet, traversing gray winter pathways,
Sedimentary ruckus, and perhaps being momentarily less daunting than it should have looked,
For I didn’t feel the need to say
“goodbye.”
Towards that fate
Which she had chosen.
The name was probably fake,
too. Nothing ever so lonesome
As something you can’t deem as real,
For its cryptical, commonplace meaning and teal-colored consequence
Only lies on the tip of your tongue
As she bends over backwards
With that beautiful luminance
The trace of her collar strikes down quick
Brainwashed and tampered,
But you still would have never known.
And I still don’t believe myself
When I’m licking at every-known gash and scrape and splinter
Just to feel it move inside
Inside.
I blank.
It feels quite short nowadays. We never stood to converse.
The name surely isn’t real.
Hers.
A pantomime.
Hushing me as she levels with the inattentive concrete,
Distastefully slipping, and slurping, and trivially gorging like
No other woman should walk in
Or smell it
And accuse me of being recklessly manhandled
While the knees bleed.
And it’s even sexier when she leaves it
Gushing,
Blushing up raw junctions of secrecy.
And I would have adorned it all the
same.
The waitress buttons slip
Degeneratively,
And I pop them for my own surprise. My deterioration.
Just to see it, and she glances.
I surely don’t know what she wants. And I know
There is no reputable yearning
for the visceral, out-of-body act
Of adorning me.
But the spectacles and well-refined arches groan and bust open and caramelize,
And they turn to wiggle around so I can feel it slinking lower
And perhaps that was nearly enough,
Just to see the look on my face.
Who knew?
I effortlessly make tribute with my pay.