Femme Fatale II

Read Part I 

 

Part II 

It’s too late,

her allure has lured you in

your reflection,

now forever fixed in her eyes;

a prisonly prism

that will not look away,

and while she sways

Every touch, evidence,

fingerprints

she will lift with her powder brush

Those bombshell bosoms

close enough, you hear the ticking

and you know it is not her black heart

When your hand reaches the top

of that satin slit

and her garter clicks,

you will know

“This is it”.

Femme Fatale

Her beauty is imminent danger:

Ringlets tailspin from her head

dive bomb and crash into her shoulders

A collarbone set like a bear trap

Dagger sharp nails soaked in victim red

Her tsunami sway hips’ destructive tides

Quicksand lips and a tongue like a whip

Lead pipe legs that blind with their glisten

Piercing eyes that break skin

drawing blood from your heart

to the surface by tiny pinpricks

Lampshade fringe eyelashes

luring the moths

Cannonball breasts ready to ignite

And the hourglass figure that warned you

Your time is almost up!

Venge Binge

Wait up for me, boy

and you best leave the light off for me

you don’t wanna see me comin’

through the dark

I’ll be pregnant with rage

and you’re due to be the daddy

I wanna see the whites of your eyes

sunny side up,

your liver paired wonderfully with onions

an’ I won’t cry a single tear

I’ll be pounding you into skirt steak

with the knife set we got on our wedding day

and wearing the cloven hoofed cherry red stilettos

I bought on your credit

to match the splatters

every speck, atonement

for every drop of chardonnay, scotch and keystone

that replaced your vows

and how

I quit scoring my skin

to quiet your heart

and now mine screams

to tear yours through your ribs beating

to be julienned

and marinated in the cabernet reduction

it deserves

and for dessert,

your coque eclair

sans hair

on our formal china set

in the kitchen

with a candlestick

Sangrinora

Start with the ragged fleck of skin from my slender finger

pulling slowly, like a runner root

Let the fresh air be introduced to dermis

wet with it’s raw awakening

Shuck me like an onion

shedding layers and forcing bleary tears

.

Disrobe my entirety, freeing me from the suit of my bearing

divorce the connective tissue

My fluids and nectarous pith

are ripe like summer’s last plum

Get at that rind like a kid on Christmas morn

for I can sense how great your thirst

.

Cup that sanguinal fluid, wring each limb thoroughly

careful not to spill a drop.

Feel my plasmatic liquor

soak your every last cell

Juice it dry, so you can preserve and later savor

that which deserves to be kept in a bottle

Dumpers and Intruders

These long, hot days, at the back door of summer, make for an altered landscape that mystifies me. The corn gets so tall that country roads, normally open with vast views of the smoggy horizon and distant subdivisions, become halls, decked in emerald paint, with only a view of the sapphire sky and the onyx mirage of carpet.

I can see why corn is such a fulcrum for a great horror movie. A farmer only has to water it until it’s time to tear it down. God only knows what can be going on inside that dense, short forest during that time.

When I was passing by a field the other day, I saw a dirty, run-down, brick colored Taurus parked along side of the road. The man was forcing down the trunk lid, and some eerie thoughts crept into my mind. I suppose farmers find a lot of freaky shit in those corn fields once harvest comes. And I’ll bet over the decades many a bloated body has been found within . If I were a killer, I suppose a corn field might buy me some time. So I guess one could say this is their favorite time of year.

There’s never been a body found on my father’s farm that I know of. There’s been trash dumped, some vandalism, theft, drunk drivers running into things, and a few break-ins. It’s a mystery how the drunk drivers got there (more than once). The farm is situated on a road that no one would travel unless they lived thereabouts. It is not a thoroughfare by any means.

Strange how a country home can be broken into more than a few times, but I have never once experienced a burglary for myself. We never lived on that farm. We’ve always lived in a neighborhood. I can imagine the sense of violation that occurs when somebody has had their home invaded.

But I am stepping outside of conventional thinking to wonder why it feels so bad to be violated.

Is it privacy boundaries? Is it fear of bodily harm?

I  understand a loss of possessions causes a disturbance and inconvenience, but what I am scrutinizing is the feeling as if someone has crawled inside and ripped out your confidence. Or the feeling that someone is still watching you.

How is the feeling different if a family member sneaks into your room and goes through your things, or if a stranger goes through your things? The first elicits anger and betrayal, the second, a foreign feeling akin to rape emerges simply because you don’t know them and they don’t know you.

Chances are, they were not looking into your stuff as a means to know you better or gather information to plan a character attack. No, they just wanted your “stuff”.

So why does it feel so weird? It is merely an uninvited guest, who helped themselves to all your most expensive things.

Does anyone care to explain with great precision and more excellent wording than I can muster, the feeling when your home has been burglarized?

The wind: a breath, a current

A breath

went for a walk

with two gallivanting fingers

up and down

her spine

That doormat

sure can hold on tight

when the wind

comes from behind

  

A breath

that couldn’t talk

through pillows and trachea hugs,

exhaled in tears

and darkened stratospheres,

that muffled wind

who can bend and ascend

to the heights of beanstalks

 

Some foreign breath

that blows wind chimes

carries, like rivers,

the silence

and disseminates

the seeds

much like dandelion weeds

to a distant resting place

for unspoken violence

 

The wind: a breath, a current

that strips trees or tickles noses,

waves flags,

shifts sand,

and is a collection

of the sighs

of millions of years’ toil

Carniveralore

Carnivale whore

carnivore

eat that corn dog to the core.

    

Consume with carnal

consecration

Bob’s kebab of quick castration

 

Carouse on careening carousel

cudgel

that comestible to compel

  

Cult-cock clown

go down

curly-whirl round and round

   

Cotton Candy boy-cloy

coyly

cumming carny killjoy

 

Circus seminal strangulation

seedy

side-show stilted satiation

 

the target in the cross-hairs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

 I’m easy prey these days,

a rapid catch.

ready to play?

 

teasingly left garments torn

soaked in my musk

hang from the oaks

 

and tracks where the mud

squooshed between my toes, show

you are on my tail

 

if your gun is loaded and ready

and your hounds can sniff my trail

you’ll be sure to bag me soon

  

if your senses are keen

you will recognize

that there are tracks aside mine

 

an imprint, but of what?

and pointy shards of shattered dreams

a struggle has occured, it seems

 

dear hunter,

are you stalking game

or a tracker shepherd ?

 

where I hide

under the leaves and bramble

and piles of loose earth

 

freshly discarded

ragg’ed and shucked

bum luck. Your mark’s already snatched

  

wipe the horror and shock from your face

rise to your feet

for at this very moment

 

you may be the target in the cross-hairs

My Reincarnate Besotted

 

My mental recycling

discards the rest and keeps the best

parts of you you you

 

Masking matters that

never mattered with painter’s tape

blue blue hued

 

I drink to forget

liquefying you down, remolding you

in me, booze broods bruised

 

Like a bloated tick

you return, popping in my mind

reuse use used

 

Obliteration Alliteration

While I tease you stay seated

So to get a rise, I say I’ve cheated

I’m assaulted, not insulted

I’ll beg but never ask

I am victimized whilst you are mesmerized

I am heavily scented, but never consent

While you are stroked, I am stricken

You are baited, and I am beaten

You so brut, I so bruised

A boor, boobs, and booze

wild whipping whet with wheedled whimpers

the bed post spire split to splinters

I confess, as we are confluent, my conjugal convictions

indeed intact, intense, entire, inseparable, intrinsic.

Retracting as you withdrawal

I’ll always be your doll.

Pickinggrapes

They told her she should go to meetings

She didn’t go

They said the healing would be slow

That it would take time to quit hating men

And that it’s normal to consider being lesbian

 

She never uttered a word, seemingly in shock

Who would understand the joy of being stalked?

And to whom could she confide that it was a fantastic ride

That forceful slide

 

“Prevention is key.” they impressed

“You mean, like, don’t leave the window open when you’re getting dressed?”

“Yes, and quit dressing like a filthy whore.

And when you return home, lock your door.”

 

As if collecting a to do list

But planning

for the opposite

Those animals can pick up a scent

And follow it

And what they want, they always get

 

She will be waiting in that parking garage

Red lipstick, stilettos on

Curvy black hair, Seductive dress

Lingering for that quick, sick caress

This is where I want to bees.

 

You were buzzing around

I’ve been warned to steer clear

You were busy and I wanted to be…

With you

 

I followed you home

Into that hexagonal drone

And begged for a moment alone

 

Oh the look in your eyes eyes eyes

The rage and surprise

I could tell I was gonna get stung

 

I’m allergic, you know

I’ll die in your throes

And if you sting me, you’ll die in mine

 

Alas, taunted to no end

He clutched me and began

Abdomen, arched and driving

 

Injecting, stabbing, stinging

My heart slowing, my ears ringing

Warm sticky honey dripping down my thighs

 

Ohhhhhh the rage and surprise!