Thursday, July 17, 2008

Drink With Pablo

Drink With Pablo

Pablo, tonight I can read the saddest lines,
drunk on fickle curves, her skirt had hit the floor
running to ruining, the eye she said, vision complete.

Sentence the lint to cling, a nylon atrocity,
up the inside of her thigh to the cotton liner
white as virginity’s clean sheet, breathless.

In the light on the sill, moon up is here,
a spider simply squats, possibly pondering
the unraveling of her long web, fly full

not the morning before, no teeth to chew,
she craves the suckling, to place the spear inside.
Cunning cat stalks wasps, until retribution moment

when pink nose reddens, a kitty flop
like an epileptic fit, a lover’s tussle.
Less curious and lacking aggressiveness

are the light paw prints the next morning,
back hidden, corner crotched, happy to just watch
wasps find their place to paper away some sex.

Drink up. Friend. Tomorrow there will be more,
your verse is like spirits that read to me;
sad poem taken like my life, one swallow at a time.

1 comment:

LaLa said...

"drunk on fickle curves" ~ can apply to so many things... like it.