To follow her is to
Twist and turn through life

Attempt to squirm free
And once more
her exotic scent
captivates you

At least your suffering
Is keen and intense

Every physical contortion
Only constricts her hold

Most predict despite
Numerous gyrations
The end will be catastrophic

I love it when you take control, I love it when you re-own me.
I love it when you squeeze my gut, I love it when you re-establish me.
So you're a bad guy?
Think again...
Dominate you until your juices explodes.
I'm your savage, a perfect mystery.
A weapon, a long lost slavery.
Misguide your imperfections and make you tell me again,
Who's the bad guy?
**** with your mind and turn the page, write a new script and flip a new chapter...
But you like it really rough, hmm, tough guy.
Let's go again, I'm your bad guy, you're my *****, think again...
I just make you think you're my daddy, and you think I'm your *****, it's called the master of trickery.
But it's the other way around, That's how good I am, at being the bad guy.
But you still wanna **** with me, you love it, **** with you like you ****** with me the other night.
But that's the thing about my duality, she likes it really rough, she's tough, she plays games and always wins.
You lose, tough guy.
I'm the bad guy, hmm...
DUH
...

I’ve seen this girl hanging around before,
A couple of times I suppose...
Everybody’s always telling me about her-
How she acts,she speaks, her clothes-

But I never see her how they do,
And I can’t seem to comprehend,
They tell me she’ll have a big future,
When I just see dark dead ends.

I’ve seen her hang around before,
But it doesn’t make it clearer,
‘Cuz she always just stares back at me
In the dull reflection of the mirror.

A poem by Billy Collins always seems to have a twist, some humor or a pun waiting to make you chuckle or stop and wonder while holding your chin.

But now, I’m not surprised by his slights of poetic hand. He has tipped his hat one too many times.
Too many winks.
One can only enjoy a twist so many times.

What would really surprise me is not a poem about jazz that is really a poem about death, or some stanza about a Bird in the winter snow (but really about a distant mother or an Ornette Coleman song or a high school sweetheart)...

What would really stop me in my tracks is

A few simple words
A haiku or prose, a
Moment for its own sake.

You kissed me so tenderly
You held my face
Your lips so soft
Your saliva leaving a trace

On my lips that trembled
As a result of emotion
My heart beat fast
My hands began to sweat

When I opened my eyes
Yours were not closed
You kissed me so tenderly
In such a pose