Monday, March 12, 2012

Poetry Fix Part Deux

We fuck in silken sheets

We fuck in silken sheets,
Giorgio Armani.
Our money, not theirs.
The feathers inside your pillow are all dead
geese and fleece.
Please do not touch that.
You cannot afford it,
you cannot afford to fuck in these silken sheets
when your bed is not a bed
when your mosquitoes are fatter
and richer than you.
Nets won't keep them out.
Money will.
Because when you fuck in silken sheets,
you give birth to real deals that change
the color of your hair to golden brown.
French fried to a crisp
like newly minted bills.
Look how great it is to fuck
in silken sheets when down
they just get fucked.
Pity them who writhe in rooms
with no chandeliers.
No tinkling when your head hits
the board, when you scream.
There's nothing like fucking in silken sheets;
it's a dream. Don't open your eyes.
Not ever.

No comments:

Post a Comment