My First
By Lauren Brooking.
You were - are - my first draft
I like you just as you. Are
you aptly splayed on my page,
with verve and wit?
Yea, you don't need an edit-
I like you, just.
As you are crude, coarse
adequate, you gleam unpolished
Chisel or refine? Expose?
Oh no! You are all my own, I like
you, just as you are.
Maybe I'll come back to you
in six months, or years
will have changed you, or
I? And my fancy may sour
but you will always be my first
draft, ghost of writer's past.
So like faded photographs
of fair days farewelled, I will
fondly roam through your adverbly
verbs, your wordy winks at
the lurid language, you, first
draft will always be
with, in, throughout, me.
Finally flee-flying in the wind
I free you, littered literature
You are the first chapter
Let the novelty wear and the book
begin. You are a mere introduction
Will you stay thus splayed
on my page?
Even if I move on?
And editor or none,
there you'll be
verbose, smiling inanely
back at me.
My adventure of lexicon lassoing,
harness then herd into lines
sometimes words work
and when uncooperative
the author's revenge:
cross, delete, bin.
But for now, I like you
Just as you are.
She’s Best Served Cold
9 May 2011
Her curves like a road well-travelled,
her top comes off with a plaintive sigh.
She is intoxicating with
her luscious scent,
but she is coy.
Anticipation bubbles like lava-
She toys with you, as an autumn breeze.
Her sparkling eye glints back at
Your reflection, crystallized beside
Her wink, you her willing prey.
She’s magnetic, like a player
to the score line.
She’s best served
cold, and a shiver runs down your
spine like an avalanche, as you
traverse towards her inviting throat.
The first gulp
Then another. She tacitly soothes
conscience with seductive
whispers in your ear.
She engulfs you as you consume her.
She drizzles confidence, sweetens
thoughts, hushes judgments; more!
You the wanton addict-
She is as provocative as a dare.
Slip of the Tongue
I’m sorry, I said it
It just tripped out
It wasn’t blurted or overt,
just a whisper, a syllabic
s
l
i
p
Did I mean it? Did I?
Is that relevant?
I said it, you quit, and I
regret it.
Or I’m supposed to.
Happy?
I know you told me not to
But I did
I know you said you hate birthdays
But you can’t really, not really
I know you told us no gifts
But we couldn’t help ourselves
I know your eyes trilled rage
But you broke my foot.
