the attention is on you lis, you can do this,
talk about being a mistress with a wet kiss.
He calls me mistress, while he’s bent over
double, knows he’s in trouble, looking at me
like “excuse me, please use me.”
And I think why this is taboo-zie,
I can’t whine about her influence,
I’ve already forgiven this,
trying to give me the legacy, of
“be pretty, please”, “speak when you’re spoken to”.
Us ladies have been banished to the red tent,
to hide our temperament,
to be agreeable, a godsend.
The Goddess isn’t all light and love,
passive and foreseeable, she’s the fly born in the dead skin crevice of a dried bottom lip, the deepest dip
and darkest dive.
Smick-smack you up, when you look above, and out around,
Smile, nod your head, “it’ll be okay in the end”,”everything is as it should be. You will see”.
But it’s never the end, it’s “next time”, or “later.” You won’t transcend your body quick enough to ever escape space and time,
so you might as well rhyme,
and kiss me,
To get ahead
of desperation in the race,
and fuck my face.
“Oh, no, I’m almost at the bridge now”…
“I forgot, how ‘m I ‘sposed to send this shit out?”
Oh, it’s the internet so I can keep flowing,
keep going, and talk about craving a reality,
a different she.
So close I can smell it, taste it,
we can do it differently.
It’s not just me,
cure for the linear curse,
or a tubular well,
we can’t make it worse,
eternal life bombshell.