mistuh briefcase man

four fifty-seven,
the taste calls
like open mouthed
baby vultures~
pushing his addiction,
checking his decency,
running
to the sordid object
of his insatiable thirst.
catch him if you can,
judge him if you must,
but his tell tale
deviance
serves as stage left
for the entrance
of miss right.
seedy rooms,
transformed
and transfigured~
the musky smell of love,
overbearing and tart~
lend themselves to the predestined
flicker
snuffed out by sweat,
cologne and cheap moscato.
two ruby reds
engulf five that's called nine
and he watches
while the inches disappear.
face down,hair tossed...
all he desires
is the fruit of her labor.
a chocolatte dream
pulled from the underbelly
of fortune five,
she tastes so good~
his secret from the hood.
yet this clandestine
copulation
is far from pristine.
she gives a fake moan,
takes the prick from the prick
and dreams of six figures
as his seed grows.

the calling

tally ho,
and away i go,
delving into the cream
of my twisted
cerebellum.
from the moment of open eyes,
out of the canal,
the rhythm,
beat,
eight oh eight kick
that propelled me
was out of sync.
two score and seven
dance the jig
dubbed confusion~
a tight little step
which calls on
spectral visits
long since forgotten.
RRRIIING...
it's your pathetic life calling.
RRRIIING...
answer,demons can't dial~
or can they?
hello?
black suited
messiahs,
from a messianic mind,
present themselves
in leather and lace.
their search has ended~
upon me they place the mantle
of multiple gifts.
my eyes burn,head pounds
as the installation
is completed.
...now hardwired for delivery.
singed wire,
hanging lifeless in my presence,
contradict my beliefs,
yet onward shall my march
to immortality continue.
an afterglow~
turn thy face
for he is
the one.

getaway

she knew they needed time
away.
life had become
the same old tic-toc,
around the clock,
rat race for years now.
so they packed,
found a sitter for the twins
and drove out
to the lake...
the cabin hadn't changed
besides a few cob webs
and moldy smell.
she watched her better half
saunter to the ice box~
he turned to her,
with a grin on his face
and a cold bottle
of rose let's make love
in his hands.
...and that they did.
with an intensity
never experienced,
they engulfed
carnal pleasures
long since forgotten.
the taste of her lips,
the sound of his mounting passion
carried them to a plateau
inhabited by dreams of dreams
and jasmine scented
arrivals.
it was as it should be.
the both of them happy once more.
as they lay entwined,
dazzled by the masterpiece
sprawling before them,
he began to cry.
she had instructed
that he only bring two bullets
for the old revolver...
this would be their last
sunset.