sweet skin, sweet
taste September,
tomato-stained
pallet boiling to
an icecream froth,
eyes blue-moon
blue-cheese blue-
sea blue-teaful,
planets in arraign
of Pluto, far out
years before back
-hand kiss to back
-hand slap to my
metallic tears first
come first serve
arriving home drunker
than Charles Bukowski
on the average day, I
hope to be the barfly
of her heart.