Poetry: Miss Number 12

Reading red books, sitting, paced and bottomed, this woman was of no other kind than the first. To the 12th sense and all in between was the scent of her perfume. She held fates in her arms upon the swelling of breasts and beasts. But none other came through. None other than princes and pork rinds fought for hand, bummed iniquities. Aye, the storms were in her heads and thighs and holes and upon the crown of her, fine. Come up here and see for yourself, the musks clawing at the nape of her neck and the fauns writhing in want. Years and years and years and scores of human hagglers rocked in that ancient, empty cradle. And to what end, only she could spend you right if you loosed the shell and let run bleeding smells upon the fallowed lance. She baked me a cake once she did. It cracked, smiling, like an oyster and let loose upon my face the most horrid, heavy, and beautiful of little creatures who all immediately called for rumpus in accordance with the books they had read and the meats they had managed to catch before. They fiddled with my seams, rocked me like spent pennies and made me want to crawl right back in like a dog into the sordid womb of mother sin and hide, and fiddle. Aye, the twelfth of Twelvetember will go down in Herodias’ plan book as my day as a marauding, suburban milkman who got to see it all and play every part. Ah, hell. I just can’t go on like such a silly little weasel, sticking my nose in playses tread before and after, but then why any at all? The whole damn thing is just a never-ending conversation unheard.