i cut my biting mouth on
a James Dean Rebel.
a toxin, a fantasy too delicious, he was
meticulous in his arrangement of
sensuous dull fires about my tired landscapes,
demeaning me, feeding me beautifully
from the other side of thick plexiglass,
already frosted with dirty gray winter chill.
i skinned my begging knees on
a Cary Grant Rogue.
a charmer, a grade of silk too much a whisper
(an instinctive, see-you-in-the-morning kisser)
on the reticent skin left bare and beheld
under that simple obsidian city dress
that fell too fast to the floor from my breasts
a burnished, sure hand on my exteriors.
but now that it's sundown, shimmer shades of
waning spectrums of poisons, choices and chances,
i find myself needing more
than a symbiotic relationship, an addiction more
than a scrape above survival.
let's make this more than mutual and