sartor resartus, or the crossdresser's lament
hang
on while I torch your love letters.
these are
not poems--
I don't know
what they are
when
I slipped your lacy frock
over my
body, and tangoed for the moon--
that
was fun!
I
was you
but
you were never me.
little love
words--like chaste tennis shoes--not hot.
if
I
violate
your
pussy narrative
and
come out smokin ,
YEEEOOOOO
WWWW
it's
what we feel
when
we feel obscene
the
crack-up of language
real
dirty work
this
won't last long.
however
the
quickening,
in
the
between
of
a
split
second
words
re-ravel us,
time
bound
now
there's a kinky poem, the way a woman's wardrobe frees me--
this
corset, these sheer nylons clamped to your garter belt
carlyle wrote how clothes make the man.
the underneath? moon naked
I'd love to wear you out
can you handle my poppy cock
I'll be texting you