When we flirt, we flirt with danger
and we must take great care that
that which simmers in our loins does not
explode in our faces.
It’s adrenalin/nitro,
an unstable mix.
Tip the balance and everybody gets hurt.
I know I’m vulnerable, ripe for the plucking,
a bird on the wire
trilling for the thrilling,
but we’d better figure out
whose goose we’re killing.
I don’t blame the wine, I blame myself.
Too easy to run my hands over the silk of you,
to want to taste the milk of you,
to plunder your lips while your husband sleeps
one step closer to heaven.
Like a cat-burglar,
I’ve breached the foyer
of this plush inner-city apartment building.
Working clandestine hours, stealthy, always gloved,
riding the high of the risk of discovery.
But taking the greater risk is the homeowner
uninsured against heartache.
Hi Andrew - I love the dark sensuous feel of this and the mixed metaphors piling up crazily with rhymes like 'silk of you/to want to taste the milk of you'. Not sure about the last few lines though. I'd love it to end at 'always gloved.' That way it leaves the reader wondering and still deliciously aloft in the world of the home invader (whatever/whoever he is.) Cheers.
ReplyDeleteYes, a valid point about the poem's ending, Mary.
ReplyDeleteRyan has finished his review of "Here There Be Dragons". Sorry, it has been so long and drawn-out a saga to get these reviews. Ryan started the Neil Gaiman book and Thomas the Dragons book, but Ryan found The Graveyard book too scary to read at night so he had to wait for Tom so he could read the Dragons book which he loved! They both did. I'll send you Ry's review and please forgive them for the delay. They really did appreciate your generosity.