By Alix Alto
A poet with an enormously heavy head
Who liked to be stroked quite gently in bed
And all of the terrible things she said
Upon which my mind predicates.
Beckoning feverish might with the tips
Of small, dexterous hands and gossamer lips
Renders volition conceptual, rips
Me toward her but she or I hesitates.
Verdant torment seeps from her tender face,
Or was it cerulean – no, lighter – or base?
Was this several occasions or was it one case?
What evidence hereby elucidates?
Preoccupation with the disjunction between
Tangible impulse and forces unseen
Will surely bind us to dynamics unclean
– One claims and one prevaricates.
Featured in Basement Babes, Issue 16