Beloved

That doe-eyed picture of yours,
I can't tell if you are..., the red lips
short hair, something melancholy
in the stare, the startle of deer. Dear
do me anyway, the scent of male spoor...

but, what do I care? The years
of cigarettes, what difference
can a few pheromones make?
to suck on whatever, and
part your thighs by remote control;
only the sound of your eyelashes
leave an impression as they
volunteer to close themselves.
No! don't try to speak, my ear,
my beloved castrada.

© 1999 red slider. All rights reserved.

Back to Lobby