She glitters. Out on the horizon. Set off by the sun sinking softly. Clouds spitting, a spray of tangelo, ruby-red, and crimson – all thick and fat and fighting; excited and busted, gushing, broken-open, lusting. Biting one another. All over that fuck-off smash of a sky. Ship of death, ship of doom, leaking shit. A lanolin smear. A urine cloud. Hanging hot. Hanging heavy. Smudge of stillness. In the port.
Caught up in your net, Mr. My hands on your hips as I scale you. My lips on your neck, and my thumbs in your gills as I kiss you. That day we ate the sunset light, and later one another. The ocean glowing silver. A hook through both our hearts. You reeled me in, all tangled up. Still got it for ya, Mr.
all those women whose writing comes alive when they’re in love, and fucking, again.
A very tall and unexpected complication with a very French accent
Does he think of me? When the light hits the water, and resonates, all bottle-green and grey, on dusk?
think of me when he sees a board that’s just the right shape and size?