Nadja,
when you suggested I should get
nylon bed sheets
cause of all the liquids
forced out of your body by me
I thought it was love
and not
a pornographic detail
from my sex life
that I cannot share
with anyone I know
She asks me where's my fire
and I think she means the fire
that haunts me in my sleep
in the desperation of growing duller,
broken,
shadowed.
but what she really means is
fire to light her cigarettes
and I wanna tell her-
sure,
the lust is dripping down my throat,
the night's full of the hounds of hurt and spiral,
of never keeping faith inwards,
deep strained communication and love-lost words
open relationships
poly
amory
watching me piss while
taking all the cocaine
touch and go
and sleep it off.
baby,
burn in the fire of every love
you want to have
smoke it away
like the last cigarette.
They sat
and he told her
how many girls he fucked
as if you can describe
in such simplicity
the anatomy
of their flesh.
It was fall 2014 when the cashier at the supermarket
wore a white shirt with a cleavage
that made my look stray
from the usual head bow
at the clear plastic tray
on which she puts the change or the credit card.
it was night time, I remember,
and she smiled at me
and I tried to interpret her smile
cause with cleavage like that
she had a more feminine smile
one that doesn’t say
“I'm tired of working here
for lousy pay”
but one that says
“come with me to the back where
the stockroom is”
and I didn’t even have to pay attention to the fact
that her fingernails had something
that reminded me of a Hendrix song
(purple haze)
and all that thought process
that lasted merely a second faded away cause i knew
she’s actually just smiling at me
cause nothing in this world
means only one thing
there are only random cleavage
of huge breasted cashiers who sometimes smile
and sometimes don’t
and it doesn’t tell me anything.