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I wish I were lovely and young
And Satanic and intelligent

I want to fuck a frenchman
Who writes books and drinks from ancient brick
I don't care what he says to me, I don't know French

As long as he caresses me with his eyes
And lets me hold him by the hair at the nape of his neck
We would walk the dark, ancient streets
And suck out the art with our nimble fingers.


*Dedicated to Jean-Paul Bourre

I thought I'd never see your eyes again
But here they are, dazzling me
As they hang from my rearview mirror

Libelous hands
Their plump fingers bedecked with jeweled rings
Do you miss them?

How you once seduced me with your quick tongue
I fed that slanderous slab to your bewigged friend
Before the mustard gas stole her breath

Sorry I used your phone
To call Japan
You didn't seem
To have much left to say.

Scars

I called his name, then hers, and mine
With each name came a cut
My skin fell open, the blood welling over
and past the fat lining the inside of my forearm
Such a tender, pretty place
I never knew what it looked like underneath
Tears made great splashes in my lap
as I watched the three names bleed together, forever.

His was the first scar to disappear
Mine grotesquely crooked, joined hers
It finally moved away, and faded
Her namesake is forever wide, plump,
a malformation, more than a scar
It simply joins the other ones
That one day will singe and burn to ash
And the kind wind will absorb it, and me.

The dress is being tailor-made
Roses still red, kissing the earth
My groom is reverent, in love
I, the bride, am flirting with Death
taking a secret lover

Trading in the horse-drawn carriage
A sleek black hearse will glide quietly
Carrying me, in my crimson dress
My casket topped with the remains
of my wedding bouquet

I think I'll marry Jesus
Sit at God's right hand
And watch what becomes
of the world
As it spins without me.



Copyright reserved by author, 2006.