Portraits of SeductersLooking limerently,furtive palpitative sweatypursing lipsreleasing oxytocin,making love thatfloats in the humid airand detonates explosivelyon my clavicle,on my breast.Pyrotechnic chemical reactionsbetween their smilesand mine.
PhiltrumA meticulous tickleon soft supple skinCold winter rainturns each strand of hairinto a crystal stalactitethat melts so gentlyinto my heated whispers.But time dictatesthat with time things change.And I feel the trimon my philtrum.Commissioned by mudimba. A poem, in the style of the movie Before Sunrise, using a randomly chosen word. The word was "philtrum." I have no idea, as a lady, what it's like to have a mustache but I just imagine it's a bitch in cold weather.
Sugary Boner Lover I deleted you from my contacts, but a moment later your phone number showed up on my screen. You were whispering to me through digital transmissions, sheepishly pleading to see me again. But you’re not a person. You’re just a number, a fragment, a thin layer of unsavory lettuce wedged between two thick slices of peppered pastrami in an overly cumbersome sandwich. I turn away, bloated. No more. I’m full. Please take the plate away, I say, trying to remember what it ever felt like to be hungry, as everyone does after a big meal. The waitress saunters around the counter and places the bill before me, and I look up from my phone for the first time in nearly half an hour. Her eyes are filled with benign mischief, the kind of gossipy curiosity you can only spot in someone who has tirelessly spent hours in an existential haze of wiping dried egg off of table tops. “What’s that?” she asks, her eyes glancing at th