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 Sep 2013 emeraldcity
brooke
Dante.
 Sep 2013 emeraldcity
brooke
one night you
read The Count
of Monte Cristo
to me while I
fell asleep, I dreamed
of ships and paisley skies.
your voice was a thick
molasses
(c) Brooke Otto
 Sep 2013 emeraldcity
b for short
By Wednesday
I’m ready to
         unhook
              unhinge
                    unfold.
Peel this pale skin
right off these overtaxed bones
& let my soul sip
on all of the thoughts
I scolded myself
for thinking
while I walked
across the company parking lot.

I’m sure she would tell you
that those sipped thoughts—
they taste like slow jazz.
They envelop the tongue
without permission
& casually uncoil into
all of the beautiful,
tasteless language
that is able to seamlessly
twist and bewitch.

I’m sure she would tell you
that anything
worth a sip
is forbidden,
as she cups her palms
& presses them to your lips.

“Have a drink,” she’ll say,
   “You need some color
                       in those cheeks.”
© Bitsy Sanders, September 2013
 Aug 2013 emeraldcity
Frankie T
she sighs.
he left his ritz crackers in the back of my car.
he loves his ritz crackers.

he probably does not care that much
about crackers.          she buries her face
in his favourite shirt, picks
his boxers off the floor          stretching the waistband--
look at this skinny boy.
holds the clothes as if they are the outlines of a body
          ghostboy.
this is a song, she says, turning up the music,
about being in love with a ghost.
My best friend and her perfect boyfriend are going long distance this year.
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts

for gospels.
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