words

vinegar over water,
bleach,
her breasts are but pale symphonies,
concerto of flesh and want,
thighs soft as moonlight,
the slender dance of her spine
pulsing through electric skin,
the warm depths of her,
the endless river of her.

she is botany from a drunken god,
a flower of laughter,
a string orchestra,
wild and erotic
and buried by her past,
she knows this world
by touch alone,
a martyr of intoxicant plethora,
a gale force wind,
tropic miasma.

lyric conflagration,
burning effigy of other
less demented spirits
forged together here,
this unholy fixture of sexual enterprise,
this model from years gone,
this young girl who carries souls
carelessly in solemn little jars.

-S.C. Martinez