He kicks off his boots
swaying back and forth
on the heels of his feet,
the alcohol making his cheeks
an inviting rosy-red colour
and his lips
a bit moist as he licks them.
He looks like an aeroplane about to crash
because its pilot has gone mental.
Then as if he wants to prove the laws
of aerodynamics, he takes off,
breaks through the atmosphere
and keeps flying this
motherfucker.
On this a.m. flight to God knows where
I ask him to call me by his name.
I almost say, 'If you ever need yourself back,
ask me who remembers you best.'
The truth is I've only seen this man a few times,
not once did I ignore the way he played it
1950.
Cocktails with friends after work on a
Friday night, I turn on my heels and
take in his view in seconds;
black and nothing but black again.
My baby wears Yves Saint Laurent.
Love songs start playing.
Lurking around me like a patient wolf
as if his lips making contact with my skin
is illicit, I seduce and abandon.
He chases after me and bites.
bites. bites me.
Goddamn it, we keep this bird aloft.
The Party & the After Party.
