"i spy
with my little eye…"
dreams tasting like crème brûlée
squeezing the throat of midnight
like between the jaws of a vice –
no jazz background,
just a bored juke box torturing a piano tune…
may i take your glasses, kind sir?
you don’t need glasses in order to
stare at my cleavage…
*smiling* yeah, that’s right,
i know your gaze’s interest is
purely scientific
and you’re actually calculating the
physical resistance of the lace bra i’m wearing
under my top…
"i spy…"
smoke – ahhh, those Cuban cigars…
unmistakable…
not a smoker? oh, well,
you don’t have to be a smoker to recognize
a quality vice object…
but i bet you tasted those in your past…
i can almost see the ghost
of whatever your teenage lungs inhaled…
"with my little eye…"
here,
this glass is on the house…
but don’t grab it that fast –
my nail polish isn’t dry yet,
and you really don’t want to ruin that
luscious cherry red reminding you
of the taste of your own blood
pumping adrenaline at some mild scratch command…
*swinging slowly* and not only adrenaline…
"my little…"
hey, do you have any change?
you don’t…
here’s a quarter,
just change that damn tune on the box,
there’s really nothing interesting
to look at over my shoulder…
"i spy…"
or is there?!...
Resentment over being regarded as a sex object? Understandable if that is how one is solely viewed, but, if I'm not mistaken, it has to be allowed first. I'm really a fan of your uncompromising, existential style. This piece is no exception.