My tics have grown up and become
orgasms, little gulps and blow outs
of efficacy and naughty exhaust.
What have yours grown up to
become, and why are you at
the equator, relinquishing laughter?
Bring your well-heeled doctrinaire
purposes to my tavern of bliss,
be served up a pint, clasp your knees
around the barmaid.
Let me see you unravel your past
as you remove the watch from your pale
wrist and trade it for uncertain futures
in the darkness of the misnamed happy hour.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment