Ghost of Earth ©

O1

May 19, 2016 Poems, Stories, Word

An older woman in Paris projects from the screen in front of me. I see her mature, select her pleasure automatically from an arch of glory holes in the bowels of a rather seedy boîte de nuit. And she is wisely selective, and she is non discriminating somehow.

So much power in one sacred jaw; she rolls one over back to front, robbing her tonsils, tightening her lips firm on exit and reentry, tongue lost beneath a head. Gentle fem. Instead – a look and feeling no more so gentle than the doberman of Racoon City; skin inside out, violent, fleshy. Not of animals; mammals. Not of Pangaea. Not of Mars.

I see her and I know that she lives in my lung; set aflame my yard just now, burning my busy fingers like soles on summer asphalt. Neighbor. I see through those windows at your sour secrets. You can’t have them all. I won’t let you.

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