i tuck you into
my word piles.


involuntarily accept
this masochistic grin.

attach trip wire to each side
of my v-cornered mouth &

yank

when the smile
is not to your liking.

i apply lip liner to all the right spots
coordinate very berry nipples w/ my
very cherry pout.

you have taught me so enthusiastically
that make-up is not entirely
for the face.

& here, in the context of your gloom,
i am comfortable scrawling gritty grey words
on my right and left breast:  fuck & me, respectively.

early mornings i duct tape
your purple blue black heroism
to the outside of my thigh

crazy glue your intentions
to my eyelids

cellophane your saliva to my roughage.

trust me, no other woman packs a weapon
quite like the weapon i pack
when i strap on my
semiautomatic hips

and strut

with thoughts of you
still lodged in my belly.

i am weatherproofed siren
counterfeit vinyl vixen
doris day's mood swing
rosemary's baby,
a few small nips of frida kahlo
as i black stocking my way
into your home,
into your lap.

i am made of many v's
and you fit perfectly inside every one of them.
i am pre-packaged, plastic wrapped
air tight, bulging

climbing in all directions

in love w/ the marlboro man,
inhaling his asthmatic convictions &

really, all i want
is someone to write me
rather velvety poetry

late at night, when the electricity flickers &
all we have is touch
two glances
verbal utilities

&

vigilante imaginations
w/ a tendency to whimper
when illuminated by flame.