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”.
Published in: on May 26, 2012 at 11:34 pm  Comments (1)  
Tags: , , , , ,

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!

Published in: on April 24, 2012 at 11:40 pm  Comments (3)  
Tags: , , , , ,

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

Published in: on June 19, 2011 at 10:21 pm  Comments (2)  
Tags: , , , ,

Sangrinora

juice me
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
Published in: on August 28, 2009 at 11:39 pm  Comments (3)  
Tags: , , , ,

Dumpers and Intruders

corn and sky

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?

Published in: on August 26, 2009 at 5:42 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,

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
Published in: on June 25, 2009 at 12:03 am  Comments (2)  
Tags: , , , , ,

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
 ckcod-my
Published in: on June 11, 2009 at 2:47 am  Comments (1)  
Tags: , ,

the target in the cross-hairs

1-1-356_2 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 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
Published in: on April 16, 2009 at 1:52 am  Comments (2)  
Tags: , , , , ,

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
 
recycling-frau
Published in: on April 5, 2009 at 12:30 pm  Comments (1)  
Tags: , , , ,

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.
Published in: on November 29, 2008 at 11:13 pm  Comments (4)  
Tags: , , ,

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
Published in: on November 10, 2008 at 9:59 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , ,

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!

Published in: on November 8, 2008 at 10:49 pm  Comments (2)  
Tags: , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: