The Subject
The scent rolls up
Like smokey sweet dreams
And cherried lips
Reflective peroxide pigtails.
I can see it all,
But I can smell her too,
Which makes it that much better.
Gravity has not touched her yet
And nor have I,
But both of these things
May change in time.
Her fingernails are too long
And white from lack of paint.
She reeks of blind obsession.
The need to be the subject
Of some spoiled child's panting desire,
It's in the way she purses her lips,
In the way she holds her pen,
And in the way she smiles
And tries to look angry when she
Catches me looking at her body,
But makes no effort to hide herself.
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Poetry
 The Girl of Shakespearean Lectures
Inkblots Part II
Through the Kitchen Window
Beyond
Cancer
My Lover
The Sound
Genovese
The Girl Who Needs to be Loved
The Subject
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