Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006


You have a cigar mouth, the teeth are
perfectly sharp to snap at the tip and grip
the paper like a cunt

and you hold me
you hold me like that in the cup of your lips.
The tip of your tongue rolls me up.

Dart a finger through the mist and please,
do a little strip with those eyes of yours;
I shiver down to my quick.

You have card shark hands, your fingers
call my bluff, my front, my puff and blow
every time, every time.

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