Fly guy—bar fly with Roman nose and sake soaked tongue buzzing in my ear; shoo fly, don’t bother me.
like a sip instead of a gulp,
the spider is on the cliff of my knee,
it spreads no further with
its unshaven jowls scratching the walls
of my mind; i remember camel turkish royals,
hard pack, you thanking me after i sucked
begging me to stay when i said goodbye.
men just want a woman in their bed, any one will do.
and i like pooling alone, like a puddle of rain outside,
dreaming my chaotic dreams.
You’d followed me out to the parking lot
after my Karaoke set; ‘Rolling on the River’ was my best yet.
I let you feel me up, under the bra, under lights catching bugs,
while my hands worked overtime, pulling down your drawers.
and what wet dreams may come on the upper lip,
against graffiti on a basement wall
or into a fireplace or all over my young,
stupid skin – in cupid’s bow – where you
press a finger, and say shhh.
like a benediction in the dark.
the broken arrow, the watery eyes
and lies i combed through my hair.
i keep them like an amulet.
i loved those lies.
Men are feeble characters in constant
requirement of a woman’s sustenance,
but too damned proud to kiss the ring
and swear fealty.
So they advertise their cocks, their prowess in bed,
and make us believe we need them.
You’d followed me out to the parking lot,
and told me I was pretty.
that dark matter hisses between us like static
in the stomach of a black hole, invisible as your
love, boiling on my brow, california as my religion.
the world going bang inside my ribs.
my hands still empty from what you stole,
and when i stare at them i wonder how i
ever loved before, how i hadn’t noticed
that love’s dead. it fell off the tree, popped like
an ornament on the floor.
it drown inside distilled water with baudelaire on a sugar cube,
trickling over a latticed spoon into a neon throat.
I’ve wept into my wine, oh!
Red, red, bittersweet, the taste of your tongue
clinging to my buds, and the fusty scent left to
stain my nipples that you sucked raw, like an
infant clinging to life—I’d wanted to swaddle you
in the fine fibers of my being. But you are not a babe;
you are a man-child with a predisposition,
and I am a grown ass woman worth more than you have to offer.
[ Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan—Go Detroit Red Wings! She likes her drinks corpse stiff, music loud as fuck, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.]
[ Samantha Lucero likes… uhhh… cats, and can never think of what to say about herself, she writes at sixredseeds, sometimes.]