Kiss Me

In text, the texture, so like nothing other,
simply cannot be explained, pinned to paper,
rolled out of the ball point, thick and smudgy.
But it is wrong not to try, dry the lines and let it
make its stand, off the mark or not.

So the textual texture, set to print for me or you
or none at all, is like that black latex cut and sewn,
wrapped around pouty rock stars, black latex
but wet, oiled down, rolled in mud.

That is the texture, textually speaking.

Or simply satin, that’s it, slipping and sliding
deep inside somewhere, and who cares where,
just so long as it always feels this good, like being cleaned
like a kitten, or the shift and lilt of currents in warm
water, deep blue, alive, quiet and endless.

Or maybe it is water, alone. Swirling, the thrush and shove
that nudges and pulls, and you are anxious and sweating
in the sun, in the moonlight, in the company of others floating,
fighting the currents and waves, pockets of cold, valleys
of warm and wading pools full of babies sobbing in their waterwings.
But I digress…

At least until this kiss ends, and the thought is broken off,
set off to drift like it was never a part of anything at all,
least of all, me.