Feb. 21st, 2004

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poets do it best
By Jake Lewis

she wears her lust
like a tattoo, scribbled

on flesh in India ink. it runs
onto me and I become her page.
the sheets, as well, are stained
with her. later, she calls me
masterpiece and reads, out

loud, the ink I cannot see.
the first stanza, she traces
on my thigh. the second, just above,
between my legs, in cursive,
a list of her favorite words:

temptation

style

rhythm

pressure and

mango

she reads as well as she fucks,
pushing her final stanza inside.
a secret, she lets it incubate
and grow until
I groan and birth her hand.

delivered back to her, it drips,
full and ripe with vowels.
she places her verse on my lips,
where I speak it without knowing,
so she can taste it when we kiss.

when she leaves she winks,
says, poets do it best.

and when she left she winked,
said, poets do it best.


from http://butchdykeboy.com/







ps-char is soo fine. i'm listening to her now, crooning, "these wounds are open, open just like your thighs/if it wasn't love, then it had to be pain/no pain, no gain/you tried, and i blew it but i still tried/i'm sorry i wasn't the right guy/listen, i'm sorry i wasn't the right man/but all i wanted to do was hold yr hand./i had this crazy crazy dream of you loving me..."

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