Thursday 11/16/2006 12:47:00 AM

The anchor on the porch was dressed in red when we pulled up more than willing to drop it. Inbetween orgasms I'd label each wrinkle in his pants. While they lay on the carpet looking so lost. There are categories for everything. I'd tell myself. Even this.

There are eyes that listen. Ears that speak. The trench forms below the swing as frantic feet continue to kick the dirt away. Until the ground doesn't remember anywhere we've been.

The night undressed itself down to the panty hose. Perfect legs still poised to receive the scavenge. Hunters in smooth tuxedoes weighing their bow ties against my failings. Weak enough to still want what what I've never had.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.