where does she get off?

where does she get off learning my fantasies of skin, of stretching smooth ice over stretching smooth heat within, over the influences of the exhausting recourse. she sings in the midnights and can dance my hot, hot energy away. where does she get off fooling me into the bear-trap? i'd gnaw my own leg away to escape, back to the pacifist arms of the warm fallen closures, where she cannot scrape the pennies together, where she cannot make a spark. where does she get off squeezing stonecold sexual episodes into my stonecold sexual appetite? she doesn't want to give me these unmalfunctioned pleasures, she doesn't want to enter the rooms my unchecked male aggression creates for her. where does she get off rolling around in the dirt with us boys, muddying up and dancing in her prance-like trancy muddled hairs, the fantasies are only starting there, and drifting further downward, air is caught in breaths and swallowed hard: the eyes can't look when the shake is ground. where does she get off? what voyeur in me did she build, with bits and pieces, with unconscious fluid poetry, with eyes and mostly smiles and mostly hands and mostly skin and mostly what she'd look like naked, underneath the warmth, within, what voyeur's visions did she burn with retinas across her skin? where does she get off turning companionship lustful, and my ape-like ape-dances only get me so far... i've got all the right bird-calls and all the peacock's feathers, but the moves are all raw, undisciplined, fearful of night movements, fearful of foreign films and fancy cars, terrified of nothing more than my own reflection, and where does she get off with those bedsheet words and hinted strongs, desires needs and whispered longings, why can't i be Satisfy? why can't i play hero Number One? where does she get off, alone? where does she do it, where would she do it with me? where can we be, in which fantasy, that leads to the grins and old sobrieties? what nasty little riddle is she dancing on this time? and why am i falling for it? Written October 1st, 1999 © on Oct 22 2001 05:20 AM PST   0 • 18 • 8