a Sunday like red wine must as my expectations of your sweet harvest lips, so tantalizingly close, like pressed bodies bubbling in that Sunday Indian summer way where outside heat provides the stomping and each gasp like long legs swirling down a glass provides the buzz.
black eyeliner morning thin lines so intensely dark dredging up emotions like those rock n roll evenings of cigarrettes and skinny black jeans smeared sticky lines of whiskey, black dirt under fingernails cracked eyeliner like rebels haunting a low e
she carries a dull reminder the way thin shoulders begrudgingly hold a shirt- the bruises hurt less than the head and the floor is overly joyous to see her, again. nothing is clear but the ache – promises broken, slinking away, just as light skirts certain corners of the apartment, hours passing.
why does the wood here smell of urine two dancers find their own rhythm while an old lady walks out with her dog straining to leave all the while the upright bass competes violently against the trumpet and the man on my side says, with whiskey breath, i hate myself this much.