Monday, February 27, 2012

An Inanimate Objection

Accompanied by the cold
winds of Bed-Stuy
to the tune of scuffed shoes,
I am fuming
loosie burning,
fists balled and frown confused
wondering what it takes
to have you all.

I've tried nice and safe,
mouth glued shut to stem
the glut of my guttural intent
to see them bent over and under
my hands grabbing at the lune
of their backs,
so my minor attacks are sweet
compliments they accept airily,
as if they were never there
with a roll of the eyes and a toss of
the hair,
words fall like threadbare dares
that fail to touch her eager nerves
I observe jumping at stories of mystery studs.

So I reach for the curve ball
ceasing to curb all my enthusiasm in
pursuit of passionate spasms,
grabbing,
wanting,
telling,
pushing
too hard like Mongolian iron
against the Great Wall,
my ambitions about to flow where
pride goeth,
if they even notice under the sudden
press of discomfort,
faces straining like I was a cramp.

If aggression isn't the key
then I'm down to forget how the lock turns,
like clockwork I am playing the part of
an ant burned by magnified doubts,
the heavy, hot, and leaden cross
of the spurned,
never much liked to be churned
into bile and froth
in the back and forth
over what the dick and heart yearn for,
thus the long steps of this
night hike spite tour past
Bushwick's broken brick front yards,
I'm tired of showin' shit hands
I only wanna pull all y'all cards.

But!
I should only portray my role,
grow thicker skin and zip my suit shut
until the day I make hard harlots play 52-Pick Up,
until then I'm stuck in these bitter twilight struts
trying to smack myself out of being the sad sack,
a corrugated courtesan, a perennial house cat.

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