Rum and Raven
understand what my deal is and I get turned on by their phreak-on
vibrations; but baby dolls don’t wanna get left out of the rhythm and sweaty
grind either so they shout it up out of control and they love me through the
heartbeat and my cold soul. Man, what a scene of perversion and wrongs. In my
bathroom – gunning it on the sink shaking pictures breaking sounds. In the balcony
with a green bandanna making it easy for Rum t’see the sky bracing for her
screams. In the style of the dogs. In the gutters of my mind. In her salty meat
that told me she was prime time 1969 as we went for that last rainy mile fortifying
the loaded roars of thunder glassing up our pouring night.
And I pushed
that final button best as I could and spent the evening my way.
Later hours as I
was stepping out I looked in my floor mirror to confess my regrets and saw the
feathers passed out in her sinful hands – the cabs were going by outside on
their cold, secret roads to Crosstown and I flagged the odd one down and got in the
backseat. I was addicted to their wine; the rain had stopped long enough for me
to sit back in my seat and take note of the pulse and again pretend my memories
of perfumed slaves and angels and the evils we’d done had not skinned another
layer of my thin self.
Victor Millan
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