Mid-life poem.

I said, 
“Hit me with your lo-fi love.
Play me
like the rise and fall after breath,
scratch-needle vinyl-pop.
Still spinning in rhythm,
show me
party’s final rasping clutch
of sub-love need-lust.
Rakefire’s dare,” I called,
“Stoke me
blowing back from dead-as-ash
grey to slow red growing glow
to flickering dance of warm tongues.”

I said,
“Let me swing you dizzy,
dip you
deep, reach spark-plug calibration
never-kiss oh-so-close,
snap-static jump-shock
in time.
Drumming out the damages
together, all the demons
crushed in shame’s embrace,
sweat drowned,
claim arcing turns of space
and sound the tube-hum
howl of good times gone long.”

She said,
“You talk funny.  How old are you?”

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on email