this is a poem about DICKS. maybe. kind of.
So on tumblr I asked people to give me a word and I'd write a poem for it.
So then apiphile gave me DICKS.
The city lights glisten in the distance
like the slick head of an erect cock
jutting above the skyline.
I am on the first train of the morning
moaning my way from Boston to New York City
and the sleepy businessmen around me
are oblivious to the more nefarious thoughts
that strike me in the pre-dawn haze.
How many of them are wearing underwear?
How many thumb wedding bands in sweaty palms
as they try to pull in a strange city on company time?
I am wearing fishnets beneath my pajama bottoms
and there is a pair of stiletto heels in my suitcase
that would make even the most shade ready drag queen
blush and giggle, shake her head, cluck her tongue
nuh uh girl. Those aren't for walking. I'm onto you.
Somewhere in the city that never sleeps
(and I so hope I can nap between Stamford and the Bronx)
there is a man with a lens waiting to capture me,
some visceral me with eyelashes too long,
to hold onto my image tight and perspiring
like a fervent teenager grasping his prick
trying to come desperately to a blurry adult film.
Who is to say where a woman is really headed
riding a twilight train with a ticket paid in cash
a persona hanging over her head like thunderous clouds
as she waits to arrive at any port in the storm?
So then apiphile gave me DICKS.
The city lights glisten in the distance
like the slick head of an erect cock
jutting above the skyline.
I am on the first train of the morning
moaning my way from Boston to New York City
and the sleepy businessmen around me
are oblivious to the more nefarious thoughts
that strike me in the pre-dawn haze.
How many of them are wearing underwear?
How many thumb wedding bands in sweaty palms
as they try to pull in a strange city on company time?
I am wearing fishnets beneath my pajama bottoms
and there is a pair of stiletto heels in my suitcase
that would make even the most shade ready drag queen
blush and giggle, shake her head, cluck her tongue
nuh uh girl. Those aren't for walking. I'm onto you.
Somewhere in the city that never sleeps
(and I so hope I can nap between Stamford and the Bronx)
there is a man with a lens waiting to capture me,
some visceral me with eyelashes too long,
to hold onto my image tight and perspiring
like a fervent teenager grasping his prick
trying to come desperately to a blurry adult film.
Who is to say where a woman is really headed
riding a twilight train with a ticket paid in cash
a persona hanging over her head like thunderous clouds
as she waits to arrive at any port in the storm?