Poetry

A Hundred Times the Woman

The wind, your name, through the oak trees -
It rustles.
The suntipped wind whispers
Your heartbeat on my hands.

I am a hundred times the woman
With your breath left warm on my tongue;
Your swagger the sway in my shoes
As my feet lust after the concrete.

Coy smiles, painted by your fingertips,
Taunt the badboys
Who sense your strength in my arms.
And the girls who feel your laughter
Vibrating through my blue veins
Are envious birds lost in an overcast sky.



The Cusp

Surfing the cusp of death's scythe,
I am a slave to the party.
I'm an addict to your body
In an 80 mile alcoholic blur.
A demon is the dust of the smoke and the lust,
bare if the bottome of a beer.
Drenched in the sweat of appeal,
I'm pulled by the pill's promise, lush dishonest,
Soaked in excess and thrill.
I'm a sex fanatic on counterfeit demure,
My tonic the poison and the poison the cure.
Silent submitting as a sinner adored,
The victim my body, my body against yours.
Negating the craving, instigating the perverse,
I'm a drug waiting to pervade your nerves,
I'm coke cut by the blade of your curves,
Bleeding memories of free will.
Unearthed remnants of black and blue tendancies
Mix with my vice, compliment my vanity,
Swindle my reason, joke with my sanity.
Riding the wave of heaven's humiliation,
I'm lit equipped to explode.



Lobsters

Fresh fish smells saturated the place, open space unventilated.
The boats lugged metal baskets of flailing lobsters,
Angry crabs, at dusk, at sunset.
Burly, dirty men, smelling of sea, sifted through crustaceans
My mother took home for sacrifice
(Boiling the beady-eyed creatures alive, eating them with pasta).
The fishy stank seeped into my nostrils, onto my tongue,
The water soft lapping at the dock beams.
Eight-year-old Matthew Perlmutter breathed sticky
Onto my eight-year-old face.
The deep orange sunset glow draping up with dusty light,
tasted frothy, of creamsicles.
Late-August-Long-Island air lapped the edges of sweater weather,
where we walked along the piers of the Sound, sweaterless,
along the edges of Northport.
His breath not so much sticky as warm against the breeze.

Greasy Chinese, sleeping 'til noon and feeling restless -
The pothold pavement of adulthood like an imp's roadmap ahead.
We become free like house dogs.
Like hunter kitten eating from cans,
We learn to drink the lethe's waters.
Mischievious winds and saturnine see-saws entwine, suspecting
the secrets of the seagulls.

We sit on a bench on the pier at sunset.
Matthew takes my hand.
We silently reflect on the lobsters.

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