It's not perfume that
gets you wet
but that dirty book
you never got around
to reading.

They sip you like coffee
gone cold.
You keep the history
of that steam
to yourself.

They like you the way
you like dogs through fences.
The light, you decide,
is boring.

Their fingers,
tapping on the table,
reinvent the wheel
as something that
doesn't move anything.

You talk your way into
their bodies anyhow.
Every foot must have
its trampoline.

You remember the song
you always wanted to make
love to.
It's the one she doesn't have
in her collection.

You think of the breasts
in the newspaper,
thighs on a bus.
Your head, that aching bordello,
admires its own sex toys.

Helen Keller sighs from above.
You kiss like reindeer.

These pale, cold girls,
you don't make love to them
but dry yourself on
their flesh.

- John Grey

© 1995

Next... more John Grey
Back to Zero City Poetry Page.