lenny bruce tattoo [draft no. 4]

torn; 
a failing feather in her handwriting 
faintly hidden under the mirror
secondhand smiles dribble down my chin
convince, looking into her eyes is my first mistake
sun swirling across her pepperbright skin
sin on this surely extant coffeeshop couch
remind me of how her wrist, peachly thin 
x
recalls mad machinations and I must begin
x

floating, the breeze breaks when we 

i can’t blame anyone but myself
or maybe my mother, who first floated the thing, 
saying, “i can’t blame anyone but myself.” but 
i’m convinced: this is a good idea, sold to a lioness

before waking beside her 
her new sweat massaged into the mattress 
in the aura of whatever, is sold without much sell 
then buyer’s remorse: this sweet thing cannot smile back.

“what do you mean he kissed a leper?
“what’s the point in that? you kiss them
“and they fall apart.”

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