Tag Archives: legs

Brittany

You were the tallest girl I ever fucked—
that alone stands out to me thinking back
among the sea of deviance like a peak in the waves

You must have been my height
or just slightly shorter—I think we even
did a side by side just to see back to back

I remember those legs
but I can’t remember your face now
other than the way I would catch you staring at me from across the room

There at someones party with your semidwarfed boyfriend
in Sarasota from outta town—Tallahassee maybe,
you guys seemed so close

I don’t know why then our hands found
their way into each others
while he was supposedly passed out right beside us—

There was no stopping it at that point—
we were too young or something—too magnetic—
nothing else in the world had any meaning left—

We had been born to find each other
sought out of height—out of hair—
out of the ringing in our hands down into your soaked booty
shorts

I had to taste it—
and soon my cock growing into belonging down in your throat
was no longer enough—

To fuck wildly trying to be quiet
he didnt even move
or make a sound pulling your black wavy hair back
my hand over your mouth in the dark smell of unpeeling
—I remember
loving distinctly how much of you there was—
the same reason we’ll probably be gone
from this world before everyone else—

You told me you’d let me do anything to you
and of course that was a total lie
but it sounded good outside at 4am on the grass beneath the willow—

How were we supposed to know
Rachel’s nana made her the blanket
we desecrated into the dirt with our mad hazy starlit ritual

You told me you loved him but that you needed me—when I came inside you pulled me in as tight as you could—I slept on my own on the couch & saw your myspace three months later still together



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Two double zeros

   When the curiosity
    runs dry a canyon
     of rugburns the vein

     and the chrysalism
    seeps straight out
   of the bleeding mud

  he closes his eyes—he
   blinks in wait—

   When the desire
    wilts a sunk cave
     of nails the sporing

     and the disgust
    stalactites from
   the lips of the yolk

  he breathes to the fulcrum—he
   feels his heartrate drop—

   When the boredom
    molds over a meadow
     of buttons for you

     and the infliction
   brands searing
  the wettable turquoise

  he sinks with the tone—he
   pulses again—

   When the love
    rots inside a pumpkin
     of stairways for legs

     and the lust
    spurts out of
   the test tube tongue

  he doesn’t remember—he
   doesn’t forget—