We’ve heard much; her hair,
Curled into a past filled with strong hatred,
Spice, ignored interest, and consensual harlotry
Aha! Well, she’s a maze,
Quite the intricate confusion that I desire
The broken piece of human cutlery,
That I prefer to shelve instead of dispose
She’s made of sharp pieces,
Of edges that will make you bleed
That look blunt in the dark,
And sparkle only in starlight
She’s broken, secretly; broken enough,
For me to want to fix her

Too much time sometimes, I conclude we spend,
In the treacherous abstractions of poetry,
In the brushstrokes of unseen colors,
And unread letters
Describing this tremendous woman,
Selling tiny crumbs of our souls,
To find words that penetrate,
The heart and mind of meaning
Sometimes, all it takes,
Is to look at her legs.
Netted in the finest black satin,
Calling out to the animal in you
To forget the mannerisms of polished etiquette,
And unleash the brokenness,
That wishes for nothing more,
Than to simply be heard

Instead of watching,
Her walk down that supermarket aisle,
Picking tomatoes, cilantro, and cooking oil
Staring like an otter in the middest moment of dawn,
At the appearing horizon
Go tell her, tell her about her netted towers,
Of the most artsy glory you’ve ever seen
Tell her how they torment you at 3 AM,
When all you can think about is her,
And how you’re human,
And weak,
And as honest as a summer sunrise

Sometimes, nothing matters,
Except those netted stockings,
That clothe the most glorious art ever seen,
Two legs, two towers, that breathe beauty,
That emanate the cleanest glow light can afford
Sometimes, some things need to be told,
Cause people aren’t erotic enough,
To embrace the sweet secrets of humanness,
That make living, worth living.

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