Trouble-woman,
although you are still maybe
the finest and most desirable
trouble on my planet,
the one fee male above all 2 others
who ever knocked me out
---but my only first-round TKO suffered yet---
and for good god damn reason
i would give my incisors to
sit with you and drink
and feel your eyes and interest on me again,
i knew i should have never
messed with you
and i called that shit when the pistol sounded,
when the bell rang, when the
frantic bulls
of this shameful sloppiness over you
were first loosed
on my slow, fat, tourist's mind.
You might have come sealed by a tamper-proof cap
to keep all that wonderful poison
from hasty pudding tamperers like me,
but no,
you were wide open from the start,
like a snare,
because you enjoyed me so then, when our splendid
sled-ride towards the suckingswamp of pain and shit began,
just last Sunday...
But I guess your natural composition
is hasty pudding-proof, anyway.
like most puerile 30 year-olds of today,
you recoil from earnestness, emotion, and intensity...
all your energy is sucked dry from the sleepless need to be cool,
invulnerable,
and firmly positioned behind your turret.
No, one has to be determined,
not to get inside of you, with you,
but to stay there,
or else to get out unhurt.
One has to be determined and subtle,
and not just be fucking around and shit,
because that leathery bloodpump of yours
is centered deep in a minefield scattered
with the bodies of
plenty who wanted you,
a dangerous
and bewildering zone
where any affection you might give
ends up only as hot shrapnel
near the spine.
Besides all this,
you are possibly just a sensualist whore,
a sex industrialist,
a distracted collector of thrills,
a modern woman who resembles a modern man.
Never openly desire
the heart of a liberated wild-woman
who only recently had it broken and poisoned,
and bashed with an electric guitar.
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