The Habladore

The Hablador.


There was never a plan.

    We arrived at this place.

         Well some of us did, 

that look on your face! 

            “Nada, mi amore.”

    No travel or a trace of a case. 

                 A man’s just a man. Just a man.

From the moment I laid eyes on the shape of you, pure lust.

        A thrust of a need, a warm hand 

                    A deed

I could escape. Every breath that you take, 

    Every sly calculation of move that you make,

    The letter was signed,

               Did you want gentle caresses, 

                     Rubbed down in the shower or scrubbed down in the mind?

        Or your hands tied? 

   Take you rough from behind.

I’d like to rum run hands upon your supple self,

                      Based on the only half promises outlined. 

                      She whispers out late night

               He hand signs,

   Based on the rip of your dress

                        Or my death on the lines

               Where those big brown eyes,

     and curves for days,

                Paulo Santo is burning,

        I studied your ways

 Can you,

          Stick with one plan

      mesmerize a weak man or a strong man.

I long hardly, 

    In wonder, 

          What’s the new price for the very last  score?

        What’s poetry for?

   What’s the heart rate of a man on the run,

 when at half past midnight might arrive, 

A loud knock on the door.     

To get you under over cover,

               I implore!

          Poems are nothing about rough sex is what a useful man’s for.

                 I kiss the ground sometimes.

            Don’t let men walk on you for sport, you’re a goddess not a whore.

        She says:

 “Organizing something special just for a little big time me?”

              I’d organize the stars.

          Wait to watch you will see

   I’d organize the clubs for cats.

 I’d rearrange a heartbeat for a second of your time. For molasses sex. 

     For tits for tats.

         “Is there a God that roots for us tonight?”

       Men talk too much of the good fight, 

but women lie.

  My friends, my many troubled friends, often seem to very early die.

    and nothing brings our solicitation to climax,

      To the heart.

                Like hot dripped wax.

   We started, we stopped, now restart?

           Have you ever walked the Coney boardwalk? 

          Had your panties ripped apart?

    Have you ever touched Vanilla sky?

               They say my funeral will have good music on the day I chose to die.

      You say you work in nightlife and you’re a good lap dancer.

                 I’m not an entry-level person 

 You’re a question not an answer.

     the ambulance lights make stage,

 just selling words laced with Coconino rage

   Are we rats in a lab? Or players on stage

     From the moment you came in that night cab,

             Did you want passion? 

    Did you want prose?

               Do you want education or a dance for the price of a green dollar rose?

            Passion asunder. 

               Is there a legal defense for lust?

  Moaning at midnight? 

   Run away but just don’t drag me under.

     Inside you with your hands tied.

         You’re inside me mind, but decide

We have held hands three times for nonfeasance. 

    No reasons for late night or plain sight.

         Hotel work or car date or back ride

A Hostess at An Airport?

        Your smile it Unarms.

  I’d like to know the extent of your lustiest charms, the war in your eyes is a nakedness, 

       The hand in my hand speaks of war.

                 Poems? Deeds, are what they pledge for.

 the Spanish in you defaults to time wasters the Peruvian luscious lips locked in late night thrusts.

      Have not or have now the musts

             Panting naked in my arms.

   A corpse scattered on rocks in Ukraine.

 Where death from above is a warble.

         Passion is a slow bleed.

                     Slip away with me soon and let us use this movement to achieve the things we think we need.

    I’d like to address,

A letter to you.

           Each day some good man dies.

                 I’d rip off your dress and make love in a pool, make love on the rough of the floor.

    I’d treat you like a goddess reverent in public, my cock would use you like a whore.  

     A captive to someone you really can’t stand, each time I took your hand,

    The kisses I’d place on your thighs. 

       I could ravish you for days, where rough hands could force tour surrender by thrusting, at leaving me in pure darkness. 

                 Not like the other guys. 

Your body brings men to heaven,

                    Your longing for something that never lies.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s