Thursday, September 01, 2005


Again--my friend--a night, sick with jaded ecstasy, wrapped me in cellophane and shiver: COME HOME WITH ME . . .

Please no.

Too much--too soon--under the light of a digital dashboard moon--Hours of hyperactive stasis caressed by thrill through the veins, of a shiver of skin, or the tip of a tongue.
Come home with me, please.


So what? If clouds disperse and stars collide for the pleasure of reflecting in your perfect skin--so what if you're so good? and I am innocent. . .

We'll never know.


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