Lithe voices glide
like spirits in mist
short words spoken close.
Closed mouths tight lips
give way to sentences, vines
outstretched tendrils grasping
rich air for meaning, moisture.
The ecstasy is the infamy
of blasphemy, to marry flesh
in intimacy, crying out for more
and less and more.
Tell her something perfect
he says to himself, his lips stir — she cuts in
“Everything will be wrong tomorrw.”
“Then anything is right tonight.”
Losing count of drinks, cigarettes
kisses, they blur, until
the edge of the world
is the end of the night.
I wrote this on my typewriter, October 8, 2008.
I’m aware of some of it’s faults, but I welcome further criticism. And I don’t like the title.