Pink Litter 14/6
She comes up out of the sea and she is all blond – she has lost her bikini; the shark of her smile took it. She reaches back. Wrings yellow hair in a wet mass. She wants to come over, primp, turn around – pray her ass be kissed.
Her eyes glint sea-green. Her breasts float large and gently sloped as distant breakers; nipples buoys; her bush surf white.
She straddles the screen. Between the crack of her butt you glimpse a sunsquint; close eyes to sniff the vision burst.
Your throat detects encircling cigarettes and bad cigars, old coats, stale popcorn; knees cracking, torn leather seats creaking…
Open the eyes – to catch a last sneer, as she steers her posterior down over the mouth of the camera; while against the voice-box an unspittable lump has grown.
She is all dark in the water you breathe.
Simply put, great poetry, masterful use of language, fulfilled, complete, like the very last tattoo. OK, I’m out of words. — M.R.
Pink Litter. 