|The Cool Blue Flame of the Throat|
Maybe I'm the type of girl that turns some corners,
always getting cornered by myself, waving a blow-
drier, cocked sideways like a glock, ultimately trained
on my own face in the mirror; curls, curls, go away.
Slippery customers, aka angels, swoop down
to snap my ass with wet twisted towels
because they like the way I straighten up;
My hips heaved forward with that look on my face.
That primal yelp from a hot sensation indistinguishable
as pleasure or pain. Just to feel is sometimes enough.
Tell that to the barnacle, the hull of the ship his holy position.
I've been known to ooze into the noonday sun to slink myself
up strangers' doorsteps for a fix, lie down and bite my lip
until the rocking stops, pry myself up like back alley pennies.
I clean up good and photograph well, though.
My eyes say, Give me and Take me, in unison. My lips
make strawberries blush. But then they pull me back
into the dank pubs to slurp down things unfathomable.
These demons know just how to open me up
and sometimes I let them. Just to feel is never enough
because rarely do I remember.
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