Wednesday, April 22, 2009

april 22nd, 2009

and an older poem, one of my favorites...


Writing is the most beautiful creature I have ever met.  She has long, dark legs and full, sultry lips that purse out most delicately when mouthing the letter 
Q.  She pulls me toward her mercilessly.  She kisses my neck and my chin and my lips and as soon as she slides her tongue in my ear I forfeit all control.  She is an incurable disease in an incurable world.  I'm not sure when she first sauntered my way but she made it very clear it was to be anything but a one-night stand.  I wanted to see her again the moment she left.  I wasn't sure why and I didn't care.  Her perfume lingered for days and I remember sniffing my pillow every chance I got; slamming my nose so deep into the sheet I nearly popped out the other side.  She was this wonderful new drug and before I knew it I was a junkie.  There was no rhyme or reason to her visits, other than her uncanny ability to show up during most of my self destructions.  Sometimes I wouldn't see her for months and start to think I had driven her away... but she always returned, and she always looked gorgeous.  She hangs around more often these days, in fact, she's lying in my bed right now.  Her hair hangs below her shoulders as her bangs cover her eyes.  She blows them out of her way and pulls the sheet down, revealing her painfully perfect figure.  My knees clatter as she steps toward me.  How am I worthy?  She runs her hands down my chest and I get a waft.  Just before she sticks her tongue in my ear she whispers so gently Never stop writing.  And then I come.


  1. This could almost be a catholic prayer. Just mumble it on an exhale in latin.

    You forgot the part where you fall under the impression that she often hides in the bottom of a bottle.

  2. "uncanny ability"..I liked this expression..