|Putting My Bass Into Her Song (by SirBoggy)|
Her lips pursed up
as if ready to kiss the rhythm
that is causing her head to sway
as if she had no control.
She, with her play hard to get eyes,
looks at you
wanting to meld in the immediacy of the Infinite
– perfection –
wants you to touch her from afar
because all affairs of love and lust,
she claims, by the distance she creates,
will be on her terms
her terms alone.
Her shoulders, relaxed and fair,
move like the ocean
as does her hair
and like the ocean
it calms you, it lulls you, as well as, beckons you
to see how cold it really is
and tauntingly asks, “Can you handle it?”
Her thick, long, black curls, my favorite kind of course,
strong, defined, low lighting silhouette beg me to play my bass
a way it was never intended to be played before.
With each cool note that she plays
in her oh so, quick, to the point, only-an-artist-could-truly-know-
jazzy way which runs up your spine
and stopping your heart on the way
as she strums affectionately
the song that echoes in her soul
seemingly from her to you
and from the rhythm her curves suddenly appear.
No! The rhythm is her curves,
which like the ocean
although placid on the soul
still plays the devil’s advocate
as it demands to know, “Can you handle it?”
“Can you handle me?
Will you walk the walk
and talk the talk
that I give no hint or clue
that you must a prior know and be?”
I have no time for this
although I’m enthralled.
I will not be mislead for “it”
although the grace of her chords
like a siren call
which I refuse to let wear me down
cause once I’m worn
her curves will all at once
just be round.
So, I’ll meet you half-way
what the hell I’m intrigued.
I’ll put my bass into your song;
You want to dangle in my face
the fundamental essence of what can
drive sane men to war?
– the very thing I’ll probably never
feel, taste, hold, love, cherish, defend, preserve,
and give my devotion for
the very thing I would never want to own
because you possess it
you flaunt it
it is completely, undoubtedly (and
without reservation or as much admiration
as you think you get from it
and power it allows you to wield)
and solely, subjectively yours.
Perhaps “subjective” is too strong a word.
As the subjectivity of what I thought was “it” – your sexuality –
which kept me coming back for more
one more glance
one more peak
one more chance to engrave all you features
especially your curves (with respect to the parts not being greater than the whole)
yet make your sweater or your robe
twist, turn, and tangle
like my tongue
or plastic on a stove
writhing around wishing its escape all while knowing,
“Damn, she hooked me in,”
with her curves
on her terms
her terms alone.
and in the end it was really the fact that she owned “it”
that truly tempted my soul. However, one cannot be tempted
by a thing one does not love,
so, play hard to get with some other moron, who’ll make my same mistake
and keep your fuckin’ curves;
from now on I will do only as you suggested
I’ll find and meet you in your rhythms,
when I simply put my bass into your song.
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