Stuttering syllables on a stage, far
smaller than our sitting room, I
This is too new.
These quick wits are the lively ones, bright and
on misplaced rhythms, mismatched
lines and chasing up the perfect rhyme
to not quite end on.
I am the ingénue, unused
to the sharp-hard spit of grit in teeth, culled
painfully, straining, from the
unreal streets, and set
in syncopated steel. I
lust for fringe-girls, pretty little slips
of nothing, liminal
kisses, that mist
are my dreams, dewy and
by the cold bold brilliance
of day. I have no
to run my tongue through
catching a cadence on knife-sharp
hips and dull skin, bruised
by my gaze.
And if you have never
what more is there to say?