FLESH-WOUNDS

Dance floor strobe whirls
cigarette smoke into silver slices,
while buttoned-down jeans,
hiding elongated bribes,
grind a scotch-slopped
linoleum sea.

Sweat-buttered biceps genuflect,
hinged atop toast-brown hourglass shrines,
as winking nipples focus plum-colored eyes
on semi-circular blue behinds.

The music repeats:
"If beauty is only skin deep,
then bury me in a shallow grave."

Later, paired for the night,
two pythons embrace,
swaying cheek to cheek to different flutes,
as wary eyes, turned inward,
pretend not to see
the one stealing past the other's heart
left ajar with dreamy expectations.
 
 
 

~ Bud Evans (c) 2000 ~